The winter, it was the winter all the usual things happened, I have forgotten what would travel from the north as a series seen from above or from below, and the followers, the flowers, I tore them up the next summer, or rather before or immediately after and thought no more about it. But then the summer, plans to sign a contract, the summer came back for what it was: a small sprinkling of rue and a yellow fantasy and we were invited. It appeared tall and swaying and deaf to appeals, and the winter following, this was the arrangement— first one and then into another not yet there, many years of this refrain and all the productions within it coming to mean more of an intimacy between musical instruments and still lifes you lose yourself in again and probably have now, what objects have known in their one dark winter afternoon. They are still visited by everything else and together complete the effect, a distance which the next day took form. That winter stopped and probably on account of summer a spring, spring with a sturdy fringe and a local reputation, it’s outside, in various rooms and looks at everything, a few lilacs in awkward positions, but they were alright, it was summer, very strong, passing organizations, which never finished anything and ended in making all this, cold coals of wildflowers, little wars at the centers, they go on for years burning near the front and from below.
Geoffrey G. O'Brien
The Flagstad Recording
Control has been candied and exchanged So many times it feels like the night Of the day, a troubled ride through A beginning whose motor announces It's still the mild guardian Of a human bird we don't yet hear. She needs no protection nor exists Except as a set of performances, Notes mistaken for an identity In sequence, much as we take quiet Sounds to be an index of their distance From the only place that matters. This is not description but paraphrase The voice does as contradictions, New but old, certainly uncertain About the decision to wear white Though it's long after Labor Day. In fact it's that other day in September Never fully over inside the strings, And this isn't time, more like the world Premiere of an anticipation Of an accompaniment that isn't Paraphrase so much as the last Chance at exhausted debut.