letra de not ideas about the thing but the thing itself - ned rorem
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at the earliest ending of winter
in march, a scrawny cry from outside
seemed like a sound in his mind
he knew that he heard it
a bird’s cry, at daylight or before
in the early march wind
the sun was rising at six
no longer a battered panache above snow…
it would have been outside
it was not from the vast ventriloquism
of sleep’s faded papier-mache…
the sun was coming from the outside
that scrawny cry–it was
a chorister whose c preceded the choir
it was part of the colossal sun
surrounded by its choral rings
still far away. it was like
a new knowlеdge of reality
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