I’ll bet I’ve been touched
By a thousand lives,
Maybe more.

Wandering bohemians possess
Just that sort of reputation.

I’ll bet I’ve left
Bits of myself
Scattered
On every path;

Because
I’ve been looking
To build my mosaic,
The ten thousand
Little mismatched shapes
That render a life
Whole;

Because
I’ve not been able
To stay with
Just one candidate
Who might recreate me
After I’ve taken my
Final breath.

But it’s more than
Just a picture.

We are, each one,
A musical score,
Detailed to the 64th notes
And chord progressions so
Meticulously written that
To hear the entire symphony
In one sitting
Leaves the audience
In shock,
Breathless for
Future generations;

Because I’ve been to
A concert or twenty
In my time –
Been slain by such
Elegant precision -
It’s impossible to leave that hall
Upright, on steady legs;

Because no one is able
To accurately calculate
Their own refrains;

Because even in a quiet life,
It’s impossible to
Render all of the
Notes that linger
Without the presence
Of an ensemble;

Because it takes a village
To properly reconstruct
The dimensions of just
One small singularity
From every angle.

Even if the reassembled model
Contains hundreds of details
Instead of thousands.

03/05/2012