modern fugue

We sing plain American

and play, achingly similar,

in a flux of singing telegrams.

Through well-tempered episodes

and false entries, we build

like a Midwest summer

fever, an infection

of synonymous tumors, ripe

with tonic chords

Gershwin would admire.

The house water runs

warm and loud until everything

goes silent; but it’s never

entirely silent, to be murdered

by a song.



Tess Kincaid
February 2011



Would you like me to read it to you?

Painting by American artist George Tooker.