In my mother’s house
a table stands
in the absence of voices

Its wood is made 
of the bones of saints
and the dangerous sound 
of the flute
is in the bones

But the wood is stubborn
and will make no music
without burning

It is a problem 
of muscle memory from the saw
of airless space
the size of playing fields
and the nervousness of atoms

If I could speak 
as the god Pan spoke
before everything he loved 
was ravaged

I would say to the wood
here is the green world
Burn 
Burn and sing