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July 19, 2011

My fingers play your pearls with slurs and rests,
composing futures won again from him;
I slip the string – it stifled you at best –
free-scattr’ing stones, his cloudy patronym.

Now teardrop-bellied trebles slow expressed
upon my thigh vibrato: subtle hymn
refrains your amber-scented shoulder, pressed
against the shadow memory: Boleyn.

Your regal amorata cost you dear:
one life, archived amidst five discard brides;
one lover, plucking basso from low tides;
a madrigal for two, sole bandolier.

Polyphony’s a song I ache to play
but chanterelle’s a singular bare lai.

 *A single high-pitched string tuned at a different pitch from the remaining strings on a lute

From → Uncategorized

  1. wow.

    profound, very poetic and beautiful piece.
    Thanks for sharing.

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