For The Twentieth Century

 Bound, hungry to pluck again from the thousand
technologies of ecstasy

boundlessness, the world that at a drop of water
rises without boundaries,

I push the PLAY button:—

.
.
.
Callas, Laurel & Hardy, Szigeti

you are alive again,—

the slow movement of K.
218
once again no longer

bland, merely pretty, nearly
banal, as it is

in all but Szigeti's hands

 *
Therefore you and I and Mozart
must thank the Twentieth Century, for

it made you pattern, form
whose infinite

repeatability within matter
defies matter—

Malibran.
 Henry Irving.
 The young
Joachim.
 They are lost, a mountain of

newspaper clippings, become words
not their own words.
 The art of the performer.

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