In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

38 Eine Kleine Nachtmusik Pitchblende; hornblende. Dark ore of the ear. The night tunes up to A, antenna And true tone from which The high-strung alphabet begins: Vigil of crickets; a cat’s cry clawing through Dilapidated barracks of the rat; Sparrows eavesdropping under the overhang; Suck and blow of pine trees milking the moon. No monks chanting compline down their cowls Could shake cathedrals like the creak of these Windstruck sashes, lash of the latch and pane. What martyr could keep her peace against The clock’s rack and wheel, the water torture of taps, Trickle of chamber music in the cold bowl? Old feet Score the hardwood with their cracked heels; Drumthumps of the unborn Beat out the belly’s lullaby. And in the homemade medley of the bed— A little sputter in the syllables, a little Jitter in the springs—the loose voices Rise so high the roof can’t Hold them back; they float as though A million chimneys unrolled their smoke, Clouds of white noise ringing in A new era for the ear— Until it’s all a quench of candles, A quell of touch, the tongues tied In a slipknot kiss: torpor of silence Before the loud aubade, as dawn Brings the darkness down, And every bird has its own opinion. ...

Share