Has No Kinsmen

Vaulted Arc With Violin

66 Vaulted Arc With Violin larGo ma non tanto in D minor it’s worse than having a memory, awake and measuring the depraved, local hour of his departure. measuring the convex, the postponed— the vaulted arc of a whisper’s flight leaving the mouth for the door. measuring the deep swell of leaving the lost to the flanking of shadows, measuring the time you heard a single sound from an empty room, a suitcase against the stain of violins in your head, against the dead white sheet, unsure if the temptation to transmit what was fragrantly estranged to what is foul, forthcoming might send you off collecting things: angles, instruments photographs of corners. 67 aDaGio in e major You’ve lost something someone else has brought him: alarms, flasks paintings of the naked. You return with less than the unknown. Before longing. Five of your ten fingers against him, the other five calculating the number of times you’ve actually made love not at once, but in pieces. The first half of the first time and the time just before the last when you could hear the last traveling from the near future. 68 anDante in a minor if not against what remembers you how you remember him or what was in his suitcase, than against the black swell of the contained thrust toward the beautiful. Not against the regular constellations but the lowest sound that stains the room and the room that stains the memory. The present on the corner of the old Russian sewing machine— a pocket watch in pieces. This page intentionally left blank. This page intentionally left blank. ...