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The flute is a zero, cusp of nothing, and then
The void was troubled, they say, a turbulence,
As if God sighed at how much work was to be done,
Not creation—we all love that—but all that maintenance,
And the sigh became a whistle, nonchalant,
Like Whitman, loafing with his hands and all the universe
In his pockets, and in the empty circle emptiness
Was amplified and shapely, resonant, till pitch
Joined frequency, and fingers altered flow
To song, and practice made, if nothing perfect,
At least a tune you could recall, whistle, maybe
Dance to, although all dancing is a kind of stumbling
After one good reason after another not to simply,
Better, stay still, better contemplate the void, but we
Have found that one foot forward, one foot back
Marks time and erases it, plus and minus, equals
Zero, anyway, but sounds like so much more.
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