Such an ordinary dream: everything orchestrated,
overhead lights blazing sleek as skulls. On each veneer
a flashbulb star glints greasy, holding hostage
this symphony of countdowns and customs,
crushed ice and velvet, notes in free fall: the baton
serves only to puncture. Odd strips of sound and light
as seen from behind a scrim: a blot, an embossment.
The finest paper, slim shades between eggshell
and ecru. Such an ordinary dream, an instrument
that disappoints: from scroll to belly to rib, the mahogany
offers threadbare strains; from this burden of a body,
a falsetto, a wisp of phrase. From the chandelier, a sickly
pale glow, at once pain and anodyne. A toast to words
that fail us, what we hope won’t fail this time.