Phrases that walk over me
seem to do so
when I want them to the least
In a crowded auditorium a voice says
Without your tools you are rendered fabulous
The curtain's hanging
More compelling than the stage
The conductor is a good one I believe
The musicians are let out in advance to talk
act natural, roam around
The stretching of the legs in ties and tailoring
A holy quality
Chairs
fixed to the floor
The youngest violinist
wears a shirt with a cinched waist
Looks out remorsefully from it
There won't be a dry eye tonight
says my neighbour
spreading out in opera glasses
Wielding a programme
Impeccably printed
Spit falls upon it
as she bends the back page
around the spine

A distant ringing followed me home
Mouthpieces
Lit curves of the curtain
The royal blue curtain imitating velvet
The silent drapery
with the capacity to fill us
You
Me

Through my eyelids
bursts of the performance seem to bloom
like a bruise in low light
The window's open
I've been wide awake
The heat of the room now gone
My sneakers now washed
hang by their laces