hearing old things
old songs
from other people’s voices
and other rooms
in the building
behind stained glass
and the confessional
the garden where the conductor
had his heart attack
in the English lavender bushes
old language
was spoken then
and the lights dimmed
the curtain pulled
and chairs shifted
in the whispering hall
subtle creaks
warm tones
red violas
quick now
the quince’s pinches
also flower