(no subject)

Utopia

Greenhouse that grows raspberries for our tea
and several kinds of salad when we dine.
We live in this vast home that was once mine
and I've asked you to come share it with me.

Sixteen long shelves full of the world's great books
most in translation. Music while we read
from hidden speakers. Everything we need
is here. And we all dust, and each one cooks.

Our rooms adjoin. We wander round at night
sharing our beds, most usually to chat.
Our bodies trim. Our diet has no fat.
We know that how we choose to live is right.

Servants enough to move around our chairs
and men with guns to save us from the bears.

(no subject)

Rehearsal

Not broken music, music still half-built,
its girders and its scaffolding on view.
Each repetition shows us something new
that we half-heard before, but with a tilt

that brings it ever closer to the best.
Perfect because imperfect, not yet fixed,
a growing thing with flaws and fineness mixed.
And after some few hours they take a rest

Eat chocolate, gossip, joke and flirt and tease.
Be human in the time between the notes
that sound as if they came from other throats
than human, sounds of gods, or brass, or trees.

Gold webs of sound are woven on this loom
ten people working in a little room.