Vivaldi in the Park

It’s just—a flautist? Drowned-out melody?
C’mon. Stop with the firefly winking on, off,
in turns. And the dimness between the trees or
the darkness beyond them or, one row down, eyes
closed in rapture—enough with the stranger,
their transcendent experience of art. They are
not God. They don’t remind you of something,
years ago, your father did or did not tell you on a night
like this. The skyline as possibility (please) or absence
or the punctuation in just the right place to convey
both. Or either. This doesn’t relate to the dream
you told your therapist, the one where, lost in this
same city, you walk—stop. Likewise the goosebumps
and the crescendo that stirred them and the belief that,
even though they’re on your skin, they are not yours.
The sovereignty of music. The collectivity of feeling.
Tiresome. Penniless. A mirror in a forest tight
with mirrors. Seems like everything is permitted
these days or, what amounts to the same thing,
forbidden. Try: the sun is down and it’s getting cold.
Try: there’s music. There’s someone who brought
you here. Next to you, a pair of eyes. A hand on yours.
A stranger in the distance, coughing. There’s music
for a while. And then there’s none.