The melodic motif crosses and
uncrosses itself, like a pair of silk
stockings set atingle with static by
the composer’s high-strung calves.
His chariot branlant, suspended
from jouncing corner posts by stays,
hooks, and leather straps, lurches
from side to side like a pregnant cow.
Two horses hoof a brisk tempo into
a rutted lane, and iron hoop wheels
sling mud into the footman’s livery.
Axles gripe and bits jingle. Horse-
sweat, leather, grease, wood, iron,
silk; all rub together with the twangy
over-tones of a baroque harpsichord.
The composer’s periwig is skewed;
spilt cordial has sullied his breeches.
He mops his brow with drab linen
and beseeches, ‘Rallentando! Legato!
Cantabile! Decrescendo! ’ His white
stockings are still perfectly clean.
Perhaps the soft warm nostrils of
winged horses should flute this airy
melody, while the tips of their long-
shafted feathers skim the strings
of cirriform harps.
But I’m the carriage driver.
I play it how I like.
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