The Music Study
Carter Vance
The fuse, the spark
was drawn out on matching
tables for the theatrics
of it all:
All-dancing showcase
of pastime blues, grinning
with new-wed promise,
grinning with minded property.
As it was drowned in shadow,
growing faint, weary as
tides scrape on sea-glass,
a cry came:
Spared of all evening’s cold,
dulling sense with floated radiation
warmth these are not a making
of dreams except as test patterns.
Coming up, a cleaner place
of it was made for mirrored
time, a hunting whiff of
old things leaving:
Like tragedies, staged readings,
the jig is danced to float
about with accordion breath,
not a pen-scratching sense.
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