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My Date with Glenn Gould
What god does he pray to, swaying like that, muttering orange chords at the clouds drifting by inside his head? Oh, to be his bow tie, carelessly pulled in place, or to perch on the rim of an ear, hearing birds flirt from their boughs. Forests of notes coaxed from between bow staves: we get lost in them, stopping now & then to picnic on crumbs of Beethoven’s skull. At the end of the night he vanishes as sound sculpted in air, decaying into what was there before before was. |
