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Picture
Picture
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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.
Picture
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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP