The Musician (poem)

With clean flute, I would pierce the holy heart,
     the bright notes, a petal-strewn path through God;
     or, with low moan of bass, I'd play a part
     to lull the whining cosmos towards a nod;
yes, to bend green trees to sing new songs,
     I'd play both black and white, those keys in strife,
     to weld in chords the unruly notes in throngs,
     enticing leaf-laden branch as joyous fife.

But how this I say "I" when song begins?
And when lips with ivory and wood first kiss,
     and fingers' tarantella first descends,
     how find myself at the heart of the tryst?

So when love's motion's begun, the quivering bow at play,
     then comes the breathless one, the man without a name.