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Lyrics by Pete Simonelli
http://enablerssf.com/

Pete Simonelli (poem) + Hervé Vincenti (guitars / samplers / keys) + Alison Chesley (cello) + Stefano Tedesco (vibraphone) + Philippe Petit (laptop)

Once, in the hallway, lit only by the small table lamp,
she turned toward him--just so--
the rightful pivot.
He could never quite say. It wasn't that she looked so, or more, beautiful.
It was just a look: mildly dumbstruck, as though an idea she should've
found so easily instead found her, in her robe: his favorite.
Passing from one room to another, he often thinks of her in it.
It was like she wore the night sky.

Weeks ago,
he placed a glass of wine on the kitchen table for her,
waiting for her. And it waits still.
A mind is not so easily lost.
He has to bear the distinguishing of things. The telling of them
and the silent trial of the telling. False gods come and go in a great
in between, where his eyes close against the night skies and the trees,
the sidewalks and the brickworks--the physical world the turning Earth
perpetuates and dawn softens to possibility. Here. He sees the resounding
space and the blindness that the grief wants to feel. Feeling for what's kept
and gradually decisive in him. The letting go, and the light outside
brightening in seconds.