Disorder

Disorder the symphony
and notes make only noise;
disarrange the poem
to leave a naked alphabet.
What then still exists?
We stand and gawk
at a pool of static, so
recently meaningful.
Nudge it with our feet;
murmur, perhaps regret.
Can you recall them,
the rhythm or the tune,
their attendant emotions
and the lessons they taught?
If so—what is this here,
this pile of notes and letters
without meaning? For
the soul exists in ways
we cannot discard, no matter
how damaging this moment
or the next.








October 2019