I listen as if I’m waiting for clues to my life, now it’s a choral piece, piano accompaniment— I can’t make out the words but tenors and sopranos urge me somewhere forward as if toward doors that might open, increasing the volume so I don’t have to strain to hear, but then it’s a cappella until the whole thing switches to orchestra, horns taking the lead, though if I were choosing it would be strings, and despite not experiencing spasms that could suggest tumor or injury, I suspect Nietzsche is right: music is in the muscles, which doesn’t explain why it happens on the way to sleep but not sleeping, the body letting go until I stop to check the clock or decide to listen harder, sometimes rewarded by a phrase that seems familiar, although I’m never sure, especially when it’s interrupted by the dogs stirring in their crates or a car going by, even when it picks up where it left off, keeping its own time, simply letting me eavesdrop, and while some say it’s fillings in teeth picking up radio signals, I’d rather think of the brain tuning to frequencies closer to invention than explicable chance—but then, the two are intimates, aren’t they, and shouldn’t I just let them dance?

SUSAN LUDVIGSON has published nine collections of poems with LSU Press and is the recipient of Guggenheim, Rockefeller, Fulbright, and NEA Fellowships.