Irrevocability pins you to the mat
to wrangle seconds . . . or thirds . . .
as if messaging with footnotes a sarabande by Yo-Yo Ma . . .
Why bother sweating the opening bars
with the prelude bleeding through the score
inflicted by a little-known? . . .
You're regressing faster than the speed of sound
to when you auditioned for intimacy's promises
and were thrown for an infinite loop
by odysseyites reopening the book to the chapter you slammed shut . . .
A well-known misstep, yes? . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |