Reflections on a Piece by Yuko Otomo

I could call them petals or butterflies, the yellows,

    the greens likewise, threads 

        mingled or apart from 

swash blue, a lazy wash full 

    of background hue 

        unremitting the psyche draws in the artist draws in

the familiar unfamiliar lapsed as vacancy 

    erupts between a place for care 

        exactly a rosary's distance walking from home

I imagine G's voice hummed 

    at a low tone sustained across the vast thinking

        paired with flecks of erudition corresponding to a thing well made

some instrument fermenting theory and practice 

    cufflinks catch the latticed light 

        at the center of a room

all very arbitrary the soughing of musical light

    turned generous sprawled across the page 

        of acknowledgment 

Would he sing the bass part while to match soprano

    mezzo alto voices shimmering across the under-

        lying bass line spawning aloof grace notes 

and harmonics finding there is no ceiling to reach only

    the wild empty kismet a vast sky consistently 

        unbroken by hand