Classical Muse

the classical hides within the vernacular like a clutch of eggs

wood-winded or unreedable all flesh is brass

shivery with bowed strings and ceremonious mallets

an attenuated conductor bobs in the dark mirror of a piano

a piccolo shrieks like a rabbit caught by an owl

clarinets and cellos swell like unexpected tumors

the concert hall throbs like an engine for the holy

and we must not must not cough or laugh or whisper

and if there are dancers they too must aspire to escape their bodies

if there are singers their lungs must be filled with light

if a movement ends an errant string may be coaxed back to the straight and narrow

we sit in darkness the instruments star in a movie about prize fish

the baton keeps prophesying one second into the future

until at last we enter the common surf of applause