The Ninth
By Black Hamlet
Sometimes the smell informs the thrumming notes,
dormant in those lengthy strings, suffering
a horse’s hair caress, with rosin motes
that fill the air, arching hands and fingers
Well prepared; blood boils as the baton falls
and every exhalation in the ninth,
a tension that insinuates the hall.
Only mutual climax more sublime.
Fine, a word too clumsy for the cello;
Oh, Pablo, let me channel you this night,
maestro hands, and thighs, they are a pillow
for angels footsteps setting staves alight.
Each note is more than what my fingers play,
commands to which your body must obey. |
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发表于 2020-5-1 11:28:12