First movement: As if to span unspannable clefs
and return home before it gets too late
(the chromatic Doppler to the V1 of sharped-F’s
the sound of the wind blowing it back to its fate).
Second movement: The dance of Augustine,
a mouse, eluding a dour cat named Aquinas,
beneath billowy buttocks that crowd the Sistine
in the bowers of Christendom’s finest.
Third movement: A longing stretched lengthwise on the rack,
a steerage that would steer itself free of its tack,
or a whiteness that would pale unto black.
Fourth movement: The breath, of course, from other planets,
with their runes, their Rubicons and their bubonics –
otherly Roses and Plantagenets
with their familiar yet unfamiliar tonics.
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1Read “V” as “five.”
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