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
cannot
convey.
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 roof
like applause.
tk/June 2013
Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for another excellent read.
 |
| Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves |
