In the pleasure of a piano sonata
And black coffee at midnight,
I can taste the music:
Bitter, warm, alive, and rattling,
It keeps me awake, awake in the real.
An order goes out to everything:
Things set forth on a journey.
I, too, shall be gone:
Transported, yet present
Still drinking black coffee
On the heights above sleep.
All things return to the first thought of them.
Then all things come back to us better, yet the same.
Yet nothing shall ever be the same again.
I can scarcely remember
Who I’ve been,
And yet whatever is, is here.