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The Foot of the First Violinist

by Richard D’Abate


I meant no disrespect
to Mozart, but first there were

three hundred chairs, complete
with human beings, and then

they disappeared, or seemed—
or things are only real

by virtue of attention,
and I had turned my eyes


To her erotic slipper,
flesh and bone—perhaps

a flaw, a predilection—
but then the concert hall

itself dissolved, as though
the god of secret parts

had brushed his wing across
the physics of the evening,


Or time, no longer under
music's metronome,

had just revealed its true

its porousness, stochastic
holes, and I was gone,

falling, or translated on
toward something like a fine


Oblivion, a trance,
a kind of death-in-life,

but conscious and alone-
if by “alone” we mean

that I was congruous
with a stage of emptiness,

or a broken boundedness,
or a fantasy of home.

Richard D’Abate is the author of a poetry collection, To Keep the House From Falling In (Ithaca House Press), and stories appearing in Epoch, Apple, and elsewhere. His essays on historical topics have been published in various books and journals. He now lives and writes in Wells, Maine. (2/2015)

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