We grew up believing that
It was turtles who poked
Holes in the sky to
Let in light,
So used to their own
Draughty shells that
They's no feel for the black
Photonic wind whistling
In their psyches.

Some nights I sit and listen
To the blue tympani, the orange
Oboes, the white piccolos:
The incessant bubbling
Of a tenor's mock-viola soup,
Out there on the old stump
Of heaven's tree.