by Darrell Bourque
I can’t recall just when the song began to take its shape
inside my head. I found myself some nights all alone
with nothing but this sound from who knows where, a cape
making a place for itself inside a bay. Some little thing I’d done
or heard come back to me in melody, the percussives so low
they were hardly there at all. Sometime it was Agnès turned
to sound, more prelude than song itself and as natural as flow
of breath on breath as she moved inside her life. What burned
brightly in both our ways translated here into residual glow,
something we hardly ever felt in our ordinary lives or yearned
for even as we did whatever it was we had to do. Now thin as crepe
it spreads inside my head. It’s not about where we’ve been or gone.
It’s not about the nights at sea or being lost or the endless scrapes
I lived by. But there it is fiddling its way into these fevered bones.