The crucifix is gone―
the one I got discount,
for singing a cappella.
I quaffed enough blood,
dissolved my fill of broken body.
It served a melismatic purpose.
Chants are replaced by BBC Radio 3―
all the pizzicato that nailed fingers
I learn to sight-read on my own,
toss the tasteful ornament,
the placid swaddling,
in a box of discarded syntax―
rain heavy on the rooflike applause.
Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for another excellent read.
|Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves|