Careful, a night set on edge the European tradition of virtuoso and the raw desire to articulate. I pushed them both backward on the bed in the end and each played on, one first try and then another. Soft then on succession thought. The instrument all torso is loved where are held fitting the flown down housemartin with a reed or belying midway uncertainty in tandem the hands, and acts adolescent. A natural vaults a natural development, his farther back barn jacket American and strewn as if spare. Thought soft the crescendo all along saws, neither stroke inward or from the heart except it begins unbecoming building in roomy youth. We have our no, libido, go. Then all limbs arms and loudly I don't want to play down the skillless touch.
Eclogue in Line to View "The Clock" by Christian Marclay
Okay, but now imagine someone,
one of fifty, say, in the queue, fiftieth first
and advancing little, somewhere within
the seventy-two-hour window of efficacy
for post-exposure prophylaxis, and later,
in the screening room watching The Clock
with the few dozen others in rows behind and ahead
who had waited too. He knows he has to
but he hasn’t yet. We pick it up there.
It is two thousand eleven a few more days.
The movie tells what time it is.
In poetry too we all face forward.