9.
Morris Imposternak hears the sounds of music.
What does it say, music,

This most abstract and emotional of all arts?
It is strange that the arts still exist, isn't it?

It is strange that we have volume and depth,
That we cannot turn ourselves inside out,

Arrange all of ours on the surface,
That we're not entirely decorative?

Run your hand over your hand,
What do you make of that thereness?

You hear music,
But where is it?

What shall we do with these questions, questions?
The questions are there but not the answers.

Sometimes it seems as if there are some answers,
But you come up closer and they turn out to be, after all, questions:

Music where are you and what is your question?
Table what is your question? Cup

What is your question? Hand what is
Your question? Combination of words what is your

Question? Question
What is your question?

Maybe there aren't even questions,
Maybe there are just positions.

You sleep in an excessively large room,
My soul—odoriferous flowers swell

Outside your windows—and here passes Morris Imposternak
Listening to music with his broken heart.