Who knows what it is–
maybe the smell of perfume or flowers (or
maybe the smell of everyone else’s
perfume and flowers);
maybe it’s the resin dust and
the sound of bellyaching tuning
strings or the experimental
twitterings of clarinets (sounding oh
so very modern); maybe it’s the stars
(oh so very old) or us
(oh so very young) and the dance
that musicless sways us.
Who knows what it is.