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I am full of the oppression of mathematics.

Bach trips through perfect melodies,
approaching and retiring from
an intellectual beauty
one must study years to 'appreciate'.
My mind is filled with his rhythms,
calculatedly catchy phrases,
filling my mind with silicon splinters,
obliterating the tune of an 'agnus dei'
I had loved, singing
without understanding.

The first ballerina floated on her toes
suspended by mechanical ropes.

Dance into the earth, not over it.
Let my voice lead, you can follow.
Here I am strong.
Sing out of the earth, not over it,
Life sings in her chest voice,
rich and full and vibrating,
life sings to herself,
in obvious harmony, swelling.
Life doesn't need a metronome.

So you've computed a way to summon God from the clouds
with your celestial chords.
Don't you know, God is in everything?
Rising with the mist in the morning,
flashing in your dark eyes, calling,
suspended in our voices,
summoned by song.