Heart Of The Fugue

Her literary omissions hide
in moist handkerchiefs
and breath that sighs intimation
of an idle pride.

And how deft she habits the scene
of a chateau or chalet,
pursing between fingers
a ring a key a note that repeats

its line of reticent raptures
then flits on nimble strings.
And so like a moth to flame

one clings to the heart of her fugue,
pressed beneath broach and pin
lodged in unrequited chords
of ascetic decadence, for her

not the arduous ballet
of formalized vagaries,
not the stately minuet
winding its beeline to disaster,

but the blue art of an etude,
overtures encircling vibrant rondos
careen madly around and about
her lips her hands her heart.

David Sutherland

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