The Sixth Hour

Usuallythe music is heardthrough walls.Tonightthe wall is behind.Six hoursafter the first beat,the room is still moving.Moths crossone steady bulb.Huge wings on brick.A second lightcomes on.The rhythm breaks.Someone switches it off.The room finds itself again.Hands on drums.Hands on machines.Someone laughingwithout being heard.Strangers holdingone thing togetherwithout discussing how.No conductor.No centre.No audienceseparate from it.For several minutesthe whole roommoves like one animal.The doorway feelsvery far away.Not trapped.Held.And underneath the noise,the impossible thought:this may be whatall those wires,birds,walls,trainsand late doorswere trying to keep alive.