Leonard Cohen on stage again in Ghent.
The curtain is rent.
Light staggering forth from every bow of the heart
towards the arc of the musical note.

The curtain is rent.
Split into atomic particles
of agonizing rapture.
What’s to capture?

Every stumble made by the master
informs the student
that there is no finer hour than
one spent on one’s knee.

After the curtain falls,
the heart wearied of so much joy,
must be carried off like a dozen
roses and placed carefully on
the altar of what is.

Vicki Woodyard