Let it be,
McCartney sang,

but then he kept going.
Perhaps that’s what he meant by that.

I always liked the version of the song
that plunged into distorted guitar,

as if there was an edge
hidden in the just-revealed blessing

that needed its own unveiling
before the song returned to its sweetness.

That was John’s doing,
or maybe it was George;

I suppose it could have been Paul’s choice, or Ringo’s suggestion;
I’m not at all certain of anything.

All I know is, I try to let it be
and find myself going on, feeding back,

breaking up in the aftermath.
I suppose that’s my choice too.

I suppose I let it be what it is.
If the sound of trouble set aside

is that shift from soft glory to hard,
sharp breakage, then I shall let it be

and sing on
while waiting for the one to follow the other.