For Those of Us Who Make Music

we walked in the early morning when the dogs were tired of barking
our footsteps,
lost in the ways of ticking minutes
took us everywhere where we never intended to be
like,
remember how the minute looked under its sole
and there our blood was
our flesh, stuck under sole turning to soil
blood and flesh turned to mud
the hour, like all the applauses we know and have heard
declared us ants destined for the mad hoofs
so the weary midnight hour held our hands
and the empty streets stared at us with their lights
and again, once more, we kept turning on our beds
as if the mattress was hot earth roasting worms
ah
music-maker, one day when your feather breaks
and the prowess of your speech vanishes like a snowflake falling on the earth
remember
you ride the hour like death rides life