Here we are shut away bang in the closet
again. The soundtrack late Chopin devil’s
trill. No treble-clef warbling and chirp.
Only underground left-hand thunder.
They say the way up is by cherrypicker.
But not everyone can hit the high notes.
Embrace me now, and softly, darlings,
here in the mothball perfume. You —
spiderwebs strung in corners, silk strong
as chains. You — dust mousers of long-term
memory wending round winter-salted boots.
You — topcoats hanging in static-cling
bags. And you — my love, my dove, my
solitude. Gather round tonight, my intimates
all in this hip and happening place. Help me
blow out these birthday candles. Before I
burn the house down.
*Title is from Karl Orff’s Carmina Burana, O Fortuna movement.