Deep Listening

It happened again yesterday:

in the middle of a fine conversation

about sublime and lofty things

something in me switched off, and I found myself focusing

on the slight pull at the pit of my stomach

as you stepped away from me for a moment

to pour wine for an honoured guest.

I could still hear the separate music

in our four voices, but

the words, the words had gone out of range.

The only detailed information then

came from the song of my blood—

subterranean, preverbal—

calling for your touch across the table.

There are no words for such music:

not in company, not when we’re alone.

All I could say for certain then

to myself, under my breath,

was that all lofty things,

raised up in defiance of gravity—

all the immortal words, and all great music—

seemed to be reconfigured there;

rooted again in the fire

that sings and sings, unheard, in our hidden blood.

 - Jacques Coetzee