Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament
Here the chipped ivory is only cloud.
The Instrument, too very old, is Archetype.
Strings of gold do not a music make.
A lyre presses sterilely into where once
was crotch.
Crotchless, music is useless here.
So am I. No one listens.
The only passion is the Christ's
and that's all passed.
Crowds are overtaken taking cue
from Hosts Divine with Hosannahs
of obligation clinical:
Holy. Holy. Holy.
I miss Canada.
Cold. Precise. Canada.
Icicles there hear better what is played.
Bitter wind cracks the fingers' skein.
Each note is pain. There's blood.
Let us rejoice what is in scarlet shed.
Let us praise its iron.
Let its oxidation in us reign.
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poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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