a detour on the syllabus
sadly taken, then embraced
in the hope that you'd reprise
us with your brilliant act,
though knowing, gentle conjurer,
all
magic ends in fact.
Or does it? Above, the chopper
whirs. I can feel its pulse
press the canopy ofleaves
pliant as a damask curtain
that, sweeping back, reveals
a child to a world of passions
rehearsed in the home he feels
as rigged as it is broken,
where Wotan's stormy bass,
Briinnhilde on the pyre
threaten to engulf him,
but don't, becoming the fire
that lit your art from within
its self-sustaining flame:
opera, child, curtain,
loss, an open book -
all
fair game in the consuming
glance, the upward look
that hovers here this morning,
wiser, no less scattered,
knowing life the richer for you
and ... look, a glint of sun?
no, wait ... the pilot's waving!
as he passes and is gone.
