after György Ligeti


This August, I wake up
in the heat, woozy as always.
My figure lies stained
on the sheets, which bunch up
near the end of the bed.

When I write, now, the lines
come willingly. They’ve glutted
on me; they can sense
what’s in my hand.
They’ve got me typeset,
arranged on the page.

Like a canon,
our few motifs
reverberate but
do not breed;
often they are only
transposed, or
given to another voice.

But if I could get ahead
of the echo, I might be able
to blur the letters.