Sonnet with Electricity and Glass Doors

--Robert Thomas

I watch you walk out of our house, take off

your clothes, lie on the lawn, look at the stars,

and turn into a harp. Night flows through you,

and a blue music .... I can’t imagine

your sorrow or your rapture. Sprawled beyond

the thick glass doors, you become both ancient

and electric, vibrating in the ebb

and flow until you’re wind and reed and strings

and percussion at once. The glass trembles:

an earthquake. I hear songs so far beyond

understanding I can’t remember them

or forget them. A noise comes out of you

that’s what the music of the spheres would be

if the spheres were rusted, warped and sacred.