“Landscape with Double Bow,” by Diane Mehta

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Rondeau is what you actually need, solo and chorus,
we and every the musical improvisation of the operatic day,
sonic scavenging and comedic jigging inside some Beckett
of each other; oh, wouldn’t or not it’s grand to be a complete observe
dragged throughout the bridge of your singular, sound-expanding
double bow, to be orchestral, to be drunk, to drink the velvet solar

from the arbor trellis; fruit-of-purple grapes we plucked—
bunches of dolce to paint our throats and that improvised
word-spun reality I, terrified, say I can’t derive on cue: loss of life,
gentle, blueprints that match the choral codes of what music thinks
writing is about. We twisted grape notes so simply off their stems,
screw of loss of life in cupped palms. We observe seductions of sunshine—

You progress above and beneath the strings in sea strokes.
One bow was not sufficient to match the heat two bows create,
so that you invented methods to get extra concord, higher bow and below bow
unbiased however shut, staccato and legato, legato and staccato,
to decide on a strategy to hear the world and harvest sound in it—
curve of bow, curve of earth, curves your eyes interpret as ultraviolet—

Nonetheless you need extra coloration, extra sound to reap, extra distortion.
Pale-blue resonators you sculpted in native clay, land-in-sky
blue above the land, distort the sound you widened already.
You might be on the lookout for a vibration decrease than what the bottom string
is tuned to, pitched so low your ear can’t discover it—
creativeness, lore, solo of magma, baritone of fantasia.

I can not rogue my syllables and improvise round
temptation ears like yours however love the glut, the key, the grand
distortions of your polyphonic coronary heart, which believes in ghost tones.
What’s true? Grapes chandelier from the arbor
and ripen on the tongue. We jammed the grapes inside a bowl,
so plentiful, and ate their tiny hearts at lunch.

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