Untuned

Untuned 

Beasts gone wild who take gardens for pasture 

    — Ibn Faraj 

     Rivers border this city composed 

     of flatted thirds like minor voices 

spread along the horizon—, can't sun 

     shade as well as lightening? Until our toes 

sift through the desert, beasts will ferry us 

to new springs where palm fronds seem dazed 

by our tone—, unless sound disappears 

     with moonrise like flowers folding 

     at sunset—, between the first interval 

     and the last, a city with no balconies, 

no homes with guitars, and no guts for strings. 

     Even our days lack harmony with night—, 

no charts for these violins with no bows—, 

why hasn't our path transposed this music?