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.