Down the holes of the flute
Escapes the wind from the flutist’s mouth
Crafting a sensual passage of whistling wood.
As the sound of music takes mercurial notes
And adorns them with magnitude,
Making me forget the ticking clock,
The pacing heartbeat, and the drumbeats
Of a hungry abdomen.
As I move into my own zone,
Like those mice in Hamlin, who crept out, their feet
Trained by the music to march,
As the high-pitched wind, steals my present,
How to become blissfully effortless,
To let the flesh embrace the levity,
Of nothingness, a score nevertheless,
That finally ends on a high note, that cliffhanger
That is almost orgasmic,
And briefly surreal.