The entrancing virtuoso,
Fingers sweeping over the sound post, brings to life
From the tapor-lit hallways of pleasure palaces
Old apotheoses to kings.

Odd unconscious whistles at the subway stop recall the skat of dusky nightclubs.
A melisma can be heard across the sea.

The landscapes evoked by singers lie before before their eyes
But are described in melodies first expelled from throats a thousand years ago.

Living room curtain paisleys whisper the wind of Zoroastrian mysteries.
A gawky adolescent guitarist in the bedroom strums tabletures from the caves of the sirocco-swept sierra.

And as for the rhetorical flourish that finishes this poem,
It must have originated in the ecstasies of a poetess at the dawning of Crete or Mycenae.

Andy Oram
January 4, 2018

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