First Desires by C. K. Williams

It was like listening to the record of a symphony before you knew

            anything at all about the music,
what the instruments might sound like, look like, what portion of
             the orchestra each represented:
there were only volumes and velocities, thickenings and thin-
           nings, the winding cries of change
that seemed to touch within you, through your body, to be part of
           you and then apart from you.
And even when you'd learned the grainy timbre of the single
           violin, the ardent arpeggios of the horn,
when you tried again there were still uneases and confusions left,
           an ache, a sense of longing
that held you in chromatic dissonance, droning on beyond the
           dominant's resolve into the tonic,
as though there were a flaw of logic in the structure, or in (you
           knew it was more likely) you.