I turned on the shower, the fan,
the radio – and the unmistakable
strains of Stravinsky’s Firebird
filled the room. Lost in liquid
melodies and violent rhythms,
I swayed and twirled until
the triumphant finale left me
breathless and tingling
in clouds of steam.

And here’s the untitled poem I wrote yesterday but didn’t get to post:

Historic buildings echo
with a noise—a silence even—
that will not go away. Here
waves of strangers passed
what’s essential: streams
of language, wonder
and transformation, sorrow
that leads to forgiveness.