Glory, Glory

Glorious here, even as the noise
has fallen silent.  Silent glory as
the musician dies.  In his wake
or her wake — glory being no disrespecter
of any people, any persons,
all are lit evenly and well by it.

If we never hear the musician
again, the music still lives.  Lives
in the mouth of another, all our ears,
and the hands of the bearers — living being
no exclusionary state, no prison
for the art it engenders.

Glorious, living music here, though right now
no one hears.  Hear that? No music now,
but the absence that demands it.  No filler,
no stuffing, nothing just to add shape — the missing noise
was and is perfectly shaped already if it indeed arrives.
The artist is not the art.  Sing for that glorious truth.