I hear the sweetly palpable texture there,
As if, like hands, my ears could bathe and splash
In each new note he plays, in each new word
He sings, or rather, vocally caresses.
Betwixt his tones, in interstitial mystery
There lies a deep, unsingable sort of tune.
Between two notes, infinity, unbroken
Sleeps, content with natural, sharp, or flat,
All alphabetical, until an unbound voice
Can bend between and wake the pure durée.
Singers often sing their songs, and we
The hearers, listen near as often too;
But when it is a song that sings a singer,
Then we have Heard.
(Originally written in 1996, I think this was when I had first really gotten hold of that wonderful word, ‘interstitial,’ in relation to hearing music.)