The silence, already gloomy, of a piece of silk

Laid out, in more than one fold, on the furniture

Which a settling of the main pillar must

Hasten with the lack of memory 

Our, indeed old, triumphal frolic from a book of spells

Hieroglyphs that thrill the thousands

To spread a familiar shiver from the wing

Bury itself instead in a cabinet 

Of the smiling original roar they hated

Between those master clarities flowed

As far as toward a square, born for their pretense

Trumpets, loud, golden, swoon over vellum

The god Richard Wagner radiates a consecration

Unconcealed by the ink itself in sibylline sobs

04/15/2008