Philip Glass
I was hearing notes
often the same
or in transposition
of themselves,
hearing the spaces
of the keyboard
become galactic
void, now,
and now late
afternoons,
the thing unsaid
the thing said
too suddenly,
when
through the grim
air, out of grey
sky, almost
silently, came
snow, so
many whorls,
softly repeated,
until dark,
softly,
softly repeated.
Harold Ackerman has retired from teaching and now writes poetry and makes photographic art. He has published most recently at The Comstock Review and The Penn Review, and has images forthcoming this winter at Kitchen Table Quarterly and 3rd Wednesday.