Concerto for Woodwinds, Home, Jun ’20

Do the rest of them wonder, out there? Glockenspiel. 
What about? Downbeat, quarter rest, 
Quarter rest, and: I mean about the 
Dismemberment of their kith and kin,
Do they ponder the sucking dread 
Of a sibling’s early end? Did space in its
Unflappable maw, the totality, having, once there,
No recourse but consciousnessless, make them
Weep and beat their tonsured chests anew?
Did they? or is that why I’m here now with you?
Don’t rush the euphonium melody here. 
The question...is ill-posed, leveed with a
Greater potential for reharm than suture. 
The untrammeled waterpath of your thoughts, 
That riverprint proper to you, to secure that alone,
Was I put here with you. Oboe, now:
Sever it clean, and test me with a skewer probe,
The cleaner to leave your immaculate touch. 
Got a Rorschach? I was told that would do,
Or a stultifying sequence of primitives, that too. Anything 
To close this rotten cycle. The horns mute. 
My life stands for only few an indexable rosary,
Some gilded object of worship, latterly
Of art historical value. Scupper that thought,
And your next too. Maybe with more scupper
That unlovable instinct to develop the motives 
Could’ve been squashed in childhood,
When, like your collarbone, it was made of 
Sugared glass. 

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