T.R. HUMMER

Sappho

Whether it’s really an island is any-
     one’s guess, but the ocean is black as far as
The mainland, and the mainland is crumbling in-
     to the water. She swims

To music that no musician is playing
     and will never be sung and will never be
Written—the music of consciousness, purer
     than water or sky

Or the body that carries the lyric for-
     ward forever in silence that only the
Body can bear (bear over sings metaphor)
     on or off islands

Where once the woman reclaims her nothingness,
     and only the osprey watches the tidal
Grinding of earthliness, no consciousness cares
     what any music means.