I can feel Murray Wilson smacking Brian

upside the head

the ringing in his ear drifting up the scales

to a pitch just at the edge of human hearing

a tuning fork stuck on On.

How he translated that pain into stacked harmonies

grabbed a thousand year old palimpsest filled with

holy roundels and turned five voices into a crystal-clear night sky

where seraphim are singing out to the just-born Christ

and the shepherds in the field are standing slack jawed

at the musical star hanging over Bethlehem

how he managed to have the pain sing for him

almost makes Murray’s anger worthwhile.