Repertoire

The robins sing at dawn,
And the old poet chants
By the open window

Because it’s Canada
In mid-July, the lake
Shining in the mountains,

Time for robins to sing
The trills that work for them,
The poet to recite

Words that work for no one
But ourselves, floating signs.
The world is listening,

Always listening, but
Only the shining world,
Nothing and no one else.

The world is listening
For small variations
That alter repertoire.