Today's poem is by Deborah Tall
Recapitulation
The camp musicians'
long forced-march echo
quarries down decades:
a quartet of strangersforever propped
on makeshift stools
a blindfolded cellist
and masked violistfitted with wooden
wings carelessly
jointed, splitting
at the seams snagged in whorled
time and its measures
(the smokestack plays continuo)
as they mime their wayagain through the old
singed scores
unscrolling at their feet...
Hearhow the ever-
forwardness of the line
(though fettered, though muted)
betrays the wayward waysof things:
whole villages left
with telltale debris, aftermath
of tactics.The air is spectral blue
round with a bite taken out
just short of a
complete phrase.Can we even call it
music?
An X over each man's face
forbids comment.
Copyright © 2006 Deborah Tall All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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