The song must turn on the compass Of language like a tangle of wire endowed With feeling. The notes must tear & tear, There must be a love for the minute & minute, There must be a record of witness & daydream. Where the heart is torn or feathered & tarred, Where death is undone, time diminished, The song must hold its own storm & drum, And shed a noise so lovely it is sung at sunset Weddings, baptisms & beheadings henceforth.
