“…despair is an art” ~ D. Bonta
On a winter evening, we line up
waiting to be let into the glass
museum across from the small
French restaurant, to witness
a performance: the music of molten
things combined with sound coaxed
from out of a violin, from a synth
whose pedal gets pumped on each
down-bow. I don’t quite understand
the meaning of these sounds made
by a series of tubes resembling flared
lips, open ears, strange foliate heads
lined up on an industrial trestle—
Like some terrible high-strung bird
crazed with grief, the repetition
of its one note against the fire
kept fresh in the background—
I keep looking around, as if
Phalaris and his bronze bull
might be somewhere in the hall:
as if the sound system
might pick up the muffled cries
of those tucked into its gut.
But there’s only the rustling
of programs, an audience dressed
in tasteful neutrals shifting in the seats.
And outside, the cold and dark and wind
shivering the leaves— making them
beat like little flames against
this crucible that holds us in.
In response to Via Negativa: Togetherness.