I hear Morton Feldman
campfired,
in relaxed attention;

calm pathways of thought
in a struggle
already decided
from the very beginning
inside a body retrospectively perishable:

silent days
swell calm seas
with schools of fish
and pressurized trenches

I see Feldman’s chamber pieces
as airy sketches
beneath open skies;

every small alteration noted
in glass,
every gust of wind
the birth of a ship;
every drownage
a sea’s certificate,
an ocean’s truth,

and out in the remote indications
of the slowest scores;
luminous celestial bodies in hovering time,
where Feldman calligraphs
the flowcharts of the tabernacles
in Zen-Japanese

I hear Feldman best barefoot