Monday, September 24, 2012

game of cricket

Evening Descends

Your high flutey rasp nowhere
but everywhere, touching off
a methodical elimination

of plausible explanations,
seemed integral at first to the
plot of the police procedural

unfolding on the screen
at least until an abrupt
change of scenery demanded

a certain degree of fidelity
to continuity leaving only the sudden
flare of the infernal purring motor

idling eternally in my head
as the likely source of the
rhythmic bowing,

a minute punch-drunk
cellist madly torturing
the scales until you gave yourself

away; black carapace, bullet
hole through the blue rug,
lone note in a John Cage piece

captured and released into
the gathering darkness
of the backyard, the emptied

husks of my cupped hands
extended in sustained

No comments:

Post a Comment