w.
S. Di PIERO
Some Voice
Pas t the silky gondola hulls
arcaded in the boatyard,
we walked that afternoon
to our favori te grubby campo,
empty except for cats
and one plane tree, wi th bench.
We loved it so much. We walked
just to be there, imagining
sometime we'd spend the night.
The little hotel, its frank lantern,
its dim sign dimmer by day,
we'd remember,just like that.
The tree's patchy shades worked
down your arm as it pointed up,
over there, locating the voice,
its open window, the soprano scales
tipped down to us. All life
is hidden life. Don't believe
everything you hear. To us,
or not to us, her voice fell
into that year, then ten more.
Routine practice doesn't call
to anyone, it simply falls
through footbridges, black hulls,
and plane tree. I never felt
I had to look for subject matter.
I take what's given, I work
with that. The rest is grace.
This all happened twenty years ago.
