Peter Mishler
Tenor
Piece of quartz on his way to choir,
forehead holding the coldest sun,
no one can see you disappear your talismans:
out of your parka, into the bowl,
you relinquish a single section of fruit
from the food pyramid,
your offering.
Then for an hour on felted risers
beneath a vaulted ceiling
you’re made to sing the Kyrie:
have mercy on every plane that has vanished,
mercy on every waterfall
that drops from the office mezzanines
in parts per million
onto the trees and earth and men and beasts
as equally as our mild hearts are equal.
When singing you’re told to fold your hands.
When singing you’re told to round your lips
to make the shape of a well.
In the dark of your mouth
I know you are saving
an orb of your human spit.
Little silver thought,
you changeling,
protector of the snowscape
walking the wet retaining wall to your house at dusk,
the history of your private life has begun.
3.2