To sing as the host sings in his house

One of the benefits of having had a woefully incomplete education in literature (poetry in particular) is that one can reach the age of 53 and discover something wondrous brand new in the written word... even if the poem has been around for decades...

To breathe and stretch one's arms again
to breathe through the mouth to breathe to
breathe through the mouth to utter in
the most quiet way not to whisper not to whisper
to breathe through the mouth in the most quiet way to
breathe to sing to breathe to sing to breathe
to sing the most quiet way.

To sing to light the most quiet light in darkness
radiantia radiantia
singing light in darkness.

To sing as the host sings in his house.

From John Taggart, "Slow Song for Mark Rothko." Read the whole thing here.