Bach at Midday

Unnatural to sit still in the midst of such motion.

It might be a life, yours

or another’s, lived

at break-neck pace.

It might be a cluttered room,

an owl patrolling a wood, the recipe for a cake,

the cake itself. Or just the love

of these, a great love

navigating your body, shaping

ear to note, note to ear,

finally becoming domestic as it bustles

the length of the gut,

turning your thoughts

to errands that need doing

and milk, lovely milk, running low in its container.