Most possessed by music,
most crude, most dying;
to have outlived science,
blended in
melody, transfixed,
transparent, it never
came, it never happened,
it’s now with
delusion—so sweet the
beauty, so ripe
in sunrise, abandoned to
miseries.
A lady pianist—to have
known
penalty, to live like
illusion is
triumphant—the poet
chimes-in, a
poet means so little, art
for the sake
of art—we do imagine!
Softer memories, wailing as they clap,
honor in such aloofness,
whelmed by triumph,
crumbling in an empty
space … so
many people: Have they
seen us?
It begins like a cartoon, it
trespasses upon life, it
remains
incognito—the flail of
the flagon,
so free into spectacular
courage,
traipsing and leaping
dungeons.
No greater pain than obscurity:
said of so many elements.
