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.