One September Afternoon

While looking through a window onto trees,
In the glass I catch my own reflection.
Superimposed on everything I see
I become both language and inflection.
 
In margins on the page I play a game
Refining what I think I understand,
I cannot step outside this brutal frame
Although I try and act as though I can.
 
Art Pepper’s “There Won’t Be Another You”
Rewinds itself in circles round the flat,
I try to find myself a different view,
Lost notes collide, metaphors refract.
 
The mind defines the meaning that it craves
Finding in itself its recognition.
Music,  just a way of filling staves,
Madness, nothing more than definition.