A Note on Lost Notes

Each threaded arrow arched

Over a chasm to begin a bridge
That is not a thing yet but an effect
Still a rainbow, still in the air--

That's the thing,

That's the thing about being
Alive: it seems like once you start
You've got to finish.

That's the hedonist's lament,

Not, how much is there left until I leave?
Since I won't need to be left when I'm gone,
But how much is there left that I can enjoy?

That's the cry of the lost notes
Of the composer too frightened
To let anyone else opine,

Tossing paper airplanes
Without any threads attached,
Without any arrowheads,

Watching them twist and dip
Into a cloud of the thin white air,
Never seeing them disappear,

Never feeling the tug
From the other side of the eventual
Bridge that's the nothing--

That's the thing.