Dream music the world heart's melody
I am being paged on the intercom.
This office space has tall windows and lots of plants.
They keep calling my name. The formidable presence
Of my high school music mentor plows the furrows
Between gray work carrels. Minions track in her wake.
I am in the corridor by the side windows when they find me.
There are men in subdued coveralls, carrying four or five
Large musical instruments from Southeast Asia.
They present them to me, make me sign for them.
My old mentor is as fierce as ever. There's a smile
Mixed in. Two of the large drums are decorative,
Not really playable, crusted with glitter and gold paint.
But there are red-painted drums that sound deep in the flesh,
Warm and alive as distant monasteries.
I am being asked to shepherd this music forward
To the world's third ear, make a home for it in drumming hearts.
It's connected to that night another mentor passed his gift
Of melody to me, in a dream days after he had died.
What melody from this jade xylophone, its keys translucent
Purple green? What sorrow have these red drums seen,
Trembling somewhere behind hibiscus veils?
The key to the world is handed to me in the body
Of a glass slide in a plastic slipcase, hints of temples in its view.
My ears are warm. This corridor is filled with brightening light.