Tree, Two Ways

I don’t hear music.
The sounds drift by me, clat­ter­ing like dishes
com­ing out of the machine.

I hear every­thing,
the drummer’s heart­beat,
the breath in on the upbeat.

I don’t read poetry.
The words don’t rhyme
and I don’t have time.

All words are syn­co­pated and
laden beyond their mean­ings
with more, always more.

I can’t dance.
My body betrayed me at a young age
and I haven’t for­given it.

I am danc­ing now
and I can’t stop and
the sun is com­ing up.