Bishop Berkeley at the Concert

 Bishop Berkeley at the Concert

esse est percipi

Later, he would not tell
that the music began moments before

the cellist raised her slicked bow
and the audience was looking down

at her name. He would not tell that
the violins were a flock mistaking

pond light, that the color of the girl’s hair
across the room was impossible.

I consider the hand…rising, falling,
a sound no one hears. It was dark.

Is the night, then, only what crawls,
what flies through it? In the morning,

quiet tongues of sunlight,
grapes cold in his palm.

He wrote, To leave a room is to leave
, thought of the cellist,

her stoop, the instrument
terrible as a leaking boat. He paced

alone, robe opening like lips of a gash,
said Christ love me, said I have no witness.