Cool days, the pool too cold for a dip,
I am surprised to think that the night
is like a grave, hollow, solidly damp.
I wake up and Mahler is talking to me.
It is quite gibberish, and I wonder
if he is sleep walking.
He is taking forever to get to the point…
trumpeting and straying into old songs.
I sit up when he asks me to sing.
Mahler wants to hear pain and joy,
wants a summer’s relief, flowers
and satyrs’ wine and bread.
I sing for him the sleeping faces
of the children, and the night lightens.
An angel sits with me, no longer Mahler.
The deep cobalt sound of morning,
misterioso and very slowly,
climbs out of my eyes, into my sight.
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