Golden
A marvelous reflecting mass,
sending back all energy sent its way
Because it has enough of its own

The tuba flings the light back
at the walls, casting
whiskers and brushstrokes of
amber into my eyes

And the bassists, more like metronomes
than even the percussionists
Swaying next to their hollow
limbs, the deep most layer
of this fibrous being

My eyes blur everything except
these patches of light from foreheads and
trumpets,
The music is like a strip of mesh over my face
My lungs struggle like a flapping trout

But maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be
Smothered and claustrophobic
Perhaps when we are most comfortable,
Even breathing doesn’t matter.