For Daniel Arthur Read
March 8, 1950 - May 25,2010
Allegro ma non troppo
The cloudless sky,
and a kind of prayer
just before you stopped talking,
In the interplay, I could hear the tugs of
not just mine, but so many
hearts shattering in pieces,
again and again.
a schiaciatta con uva.
We ate some in the little car.
The sweet, musky flavor of grapes and the yeasty bread,
the crunching of the seeds
was the sun today.
You are gone, but it remains:
In the interplay of the instruments
is a pull to the dark.
a way of lulling us with beauty
to remind us that it all
There is no beauty without end.
There is no love without death.
Just as the viola goes plaintive and the
and the cello makes its way through life,
we hope for unscathed but, settle for scarred.
The violins weave around each other sharing some new discovery
in the mosaics in Ravenna at San Vitale,
or over an espresso in a bar
on some side street near Santa Croce.
Watching you breath with so much heaviness
took me to an afternoon when we
were supposed to get tickets to Venice.
Instead, we drank 9 espressos
and shared 9 different sweets
and only remembered the tickets at the last minute.
That was the day two Andreas, John, Theresa, you and I
walked through the rain in our clear green plastic ponchos
and trudged over the aqua alta on catwalks through the
Piazza San Marco.
The gray green light in Venice was the sister
was the sister of
the day I thought of you
outside the Conciergerie;
you and the shimmering colors of glass
and gold stars on the ceiling in St. Chappelle,
you and the quavering light though alabaster
and gold stars on the ceiling in the Galla Placida.
You were the first love.
I can only hold on by a thread,
a very thin thread,
on this earth.
waves of coruscation pound
and quake the shore.
and then there will be some small relief:
a picture of a tiny robin,
or the juicy flavor of a nectarine,
or the little girl at the Farmer's Market
begging her mother for lello cherries,
not red, lello.
How the days reflect that child's longing.
for her the color makes it complete
and for me these days, I look for,
but find, there is no more complete
and that you are gone forever.
Pretend that it didn't happen.
pretend that night isn't darker than dark could be made to
pretend that the darkness leads away from the rent in the very fabric
of this curtain of illusion.
echoes of echoes
echoes of echoes of tears falling
to fill the pool.
echoes of echoes to remind that
you will never be here again.
wraps the heart as insulation
that does not hold.
pizzicato returns to present or portend on these long Sundays
that bring reminders of
what is missing.
and that what is missing is you.
i can attempt to find light
and it eludes by a moment
by a shred of a scintilla of a second
and I am back to that moment,
that irreconcilable and irrevocable breath
that was the last.
I attempt to find some hope but drift through days
as if this maquillage was the face of today
and not some arrangement of colors that
and doesn't convince.
My heart is a hole.