And the long-dead boy sings
sweet, sad songs
against the choir.
I.
In the shadow of a café,
he whistled tunelessly like an overblown flute,
catching along the grain of the air;
whistled tunelessly the first few bars of
‘Bring it on Home to Me’
greybeardedly through creased lips.
A twist wrenched him stasis-free from
his shadowed spot
and poured him out into the bluedusked street where,
louder then,
he testified in waxing breaths: the sharp wind of winter shifting
snow down sidestreets boldly.
And it soothed his soul.
II.
Tragedy is the quadriplege
of emotive thought: static and un-
moving; you are brought
to it.
Tragedy, which pales
blood from the face, draws colour
from the hairs of the face, and calls
quiet unto brazenness,
brings beauty
unto music.
