the classical hides
within the vernacular
like a clutch of eggs
wood-winded
or unreedable
all flesh is brass
shivery
with bowed strings
and ceremonious mallets
an attenuated conductor
bobs in the dark mirror
of a piano
a piccolo shrieks
like a rabbit
caught by an owl
clarinets
and cellos swell
like unexpected tumors
the concert hall throbs
like an engine
for the holy
and we must not
must not cough
or laugh or whisper
and if there are dancers
they too must aspire
to escape their bodies
if there are singers
their lungs must be filled
with light
if a movement ends
an errant string may be coaxed back
to the straight and narrow
we sit in darkness
the instruments star in a movie
about prize fish
the baton keeps prophesying
one second into
the future
until at last we enter
the common surf
of applause