What we sound like today
is two separate trumpets playing
a hurried duet across octaves.
We collide and retreat like a fugue,

two separate trumpets playing
a sullen song to each other --
collide and retreat like a fugue,
scatter the score with careless turns.

A sullen song to each other
is all we can manage to play.
We scatter the score with careless turns,
sharp our flat notes by accident.

It's all we can manage to play
though there's much left to say.
Our flat notes sharp by accident,
our ear turned inward, and deaf.

A sullen song to each other.
A hurried duet across octaves.
Music made blasphemous is
what we sound like today.