After Chopin

By | 1 May 2018
Out from elms, floating and rising, shrouds of dust play across the sand. There’s something alarming in how quickly the shapes move against my will as if they might carry you away with them. Celestial. Pious. Cowled like monks. They almost turn to laugh at me

It is true that I fell in love with you once and by fall in love I mean succumbed to your music. It was in Italy when the summer grass was cold and the jasmine fused a nimbus bluer than the moon. How it was that I saw you then, your candlestick eyes turned towards the night like a wolf’s scanning for movement in the snow

Let me tell you that I am made of neither the material of a wife nor the livery of a mother. In truth, I move invisibly across the snow. It strikes me very well that the circumference of your hunt is so narrow and the margin of your appetite falls so steep that the only way to find you is to step out of hiding

Step within a nocturne of piano where a hammer lengthens out my name

There I shall move not unlike a braid of waterfall. Let you step through me into a chthonic light where the sleep of stones and the fugues of totems have been boiled, gathered, enchanted away.


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