The Prague Symphony
A tube of raging black
squeezes itself out.
Dead-brilliant’s the word.
But this is many words.
Murderous first violins
wring a repulsive song of sewage
over empty wigs.
Foreground becomes background
Syncopations tear the canvas to Picasso shreds.
The mountain heaves itself up by its bootstraps
and everything’s sun from beautiful windplayers
a warm summer breeze that is priceless.
Closed and open.
You play the bridges,
alien-black like Mozart.
The cat’s paws find peace
impossible to spy on
violas disguised as violas
impossible to find, to fake, to film.
To see the original Norwegian poem and hear it read, to to here.