Ninth

A poem about the transitions between one time and the next.

If I am lucky, I will have maybe a dozen songs, all of which
I will play ceaselessly, out of order, each only for a few seconds at one time,
always looping back to those I will have already heard.
I will be disjointed, confused, afraid—
hesitate at every pause, wondering:
Could this be my last note?

There is fear in the transition,
of leaving one tone, one work,
calling it finished, forgetting almost everything,
and moving on.
The next sound, the next beginning,
a new chorus,
wearisome, exhausting, obsessed,
and suddenly the previous eight symphonies fly through my ears,
reminding me that nine comes after eight, after seven, after six, and so on,
then fin—
It is finished,
and begin again.

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