The answer to that question can only be sung.
Can only be whoooed in an umbrella-flipping wind
Can only be rained.
It can’t be Googled, archived,
written or spoken.
But it can be born. The answer to that question can be born
in a plane or a tunnel,
a revolving restaurant or a cavern,
a Hyatt or a hostel.
Then it will need to be rained.
The answer to that question might be rained
by a guitar, might be tossed all over you
by the interplay of drums, might be splashed
hot onto your cheeks by the smile and flip,
pull and release of bass.
Or by nine quiet words and the slight tilt
of a face.
Then the answer to that question may be felt
but you have to feel it yourself. You have to sit
in the perfunctory hush of a non-denominational chapel
and cry into empty hands. Rain that rain, bent double.
Pray for the first time,
to presence that knows no name.
To presence that needs no name,
give thanks for the loss of a dream.
Stare into stained glass and find, sun-backlit,
the face.
Then sing and sing, in whatever voice you have.
The answer to that question can only be sung.