From the Clarinet

Late November, and lonely resonance of harmattan salutes this solitude. A weaverbird's contralto, in one gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade of a maisonette, and the romance of the last seasons shoots the long throat of the clarinet... O'classicals, on wings ye come; leaf cusps and petal ears — classicals, swearing oaths of mellifluous assembly... Calm rhythms hasten to the ears of Beethoven — summon him for a serenade, lest the dark shelter of a decrepit day strips this solitude. Anodyne hisses among this hidden threshold, curing and healing the weakness of Clepoatra's hair, dampened with the venom of haters of vanity. Classicals, rid us now of this grief of mundane dances... Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude on notes of the keys. From the clarinet, the bimetallism of barter — the platitude of life and death (symbiosis of percussions) epitaph to the aftermath of inveterate tradition — now and forever... And the clarinet looms.