Let The Song Begin
(after Paul Colinet)
The nocturne steps down from its carousel.
In the world of things, it is little more than a ditto mark on the side of a mountainous valley. A whoop shaped from old hands, knit caps and thousands of spice-boxes.
At the manor, the martyrs are arrayed in mantillas and the oppressors in tuxedo.
Just there, a russet fraise is visible above the jacket's folds.
The nocturne lights a cannon's wick and begins the evening's song.