Tuesday, 8 December 2015

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 53



An Introduction to the Skill of the Viol

How high is the sun?
Equations turn it— yet, no higher
than the hill above the burning town, shadows
buried long ago still shining, and the pines eased of resin
where heat sucks green needles black.

Each day is a fiction; why do you persist?
There was a summer ballroom. We gathered
camellias from the garden to brighten cold stone.
I was happy then.
I sat against a wall south-facing. At noon
a ruby light leapt and pranced. After the applause
my shadow was released unharmed.

How high is the sun?
There is no sun, no hill, no sarabande. Everything taught
is forgotten. There is a hidden thing that cannot be known.
This is how it begins.

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