Dvorak in a concert hall: Crows/ Orchid

soCROWDedCROWdedCROW
soCROWDedCROWdedCROWDedCROWded

crows gathering
like penguins at a burial
CROWCROWCROWCROW
soCROWDED
I was swaying side to side
as they gathered gather'd.

The Death here must you know
is of heart.Do you hear
the death here
gathering.

Why does the lover
leave her? He goes
He goes as the petals
of all the tulips in D.C.
drop
one/by one/by one/by one
the beautiful red red
the beautiful beds
yellow tulips in large
beds such large large
plantings of giant
STRONGyellow and red
Tulips in all the formal gardens
of avenues embassies promenades
openwideone big bright
day and drop
suddenly that night
or the next day.

Dead.

Take heart.Death is
no more than a light
fall.a slight pain
sharpenedbriefas
a white orchid
on the dark bedspread is
[ the heavy Hilton spread
familiar quiltstitch
brown binding down
the sides, the flat fold
under & over pillows
flattened down; fake
brocade ]Room #4--something
of
a brilliant afternoon:
The curtain closes.

The orchid is set
gently/precisely
on the dresser.

Take hearthe finds
the passages of Elgar
in her veins/he can
whistle for her/he is
finding the sorrowful
beautiful notes
in her veinsTake heart
he takes her
heartallof heralive
againDeath is
no more
than Elgar ending his
concerto, or the Dvorak
climax, then brief
lights on

like forsythia.

When he is in Japan
the blossoms of all
the pear trees and cherry trees
will be gone by
there too
the trees will be
emptyeven if
leafy

Death is no more than
an emptying
music hall with its
small conversations

Then they leave and do not
come back, the talented penguins.

Pews empty, and the ceiling vaults
where Dvorak had been
resonant.I am afraid of sadness.
I am afraid of desire.
I am afraid of the crows,
the blackfeather consolation,
less thanof the too much love demanding/
batting/in my gutheart.
I am afraid of the crows
less thanof the white orchid
leading me to believe
something that is nothing
fluttering inside some-
where oh where the fragile curtain the
lost curtain of the nursery.

Less of the stormy crowd of crows
than of the perfect
stiff
white
orchid: it was lovely.

Deathin void or black
the one seduction that is not
a deceptionOne can be going
along with these echoeslike moving
to musicforward and forward