This morning
the leaves of the oak
glitter like wind

on a watery dawn
and then dull
until light ripples again.

I hear a sky
played on a harpsichord
sharp and staccato,

Scarlatti (whose name too
sounds the scale of pain
up to the tightened vowel)

wound sand wounds then back
to the ti do of daybreak
waving to the last plucked star.

I think of Eurydice’s throat
as her feet first felt
the tense sunlight

and then her music, the double descant.
So you, late friend, climbed behind me,
I turned and you were gone

And yet I cannot blame Orpheus
who could not bear not to look.
Perhaps I looked too long.