but by evening the viola had to be put down.
morning must needs be considered:
there’s one’s names and face to recall.
and the alarm:  is it set?  is it?  is it set now?
there’s work to think on:
(what is it?  that one does?)
what’s to be taken?  to be eaten for lunch?
no, the viola must necessarily be cast aside
–set aside, i mean, of course,
because a viola is a delicate instrument.
you hear how it gets in the way
with that brilliant strain in its throat.
ceaseless, rain-soaked breath,
fatherly confidences
beyond the pale arms of motherhood.
you see how the viola might distract
from cars,
the sleepers of this new dawn,
from visualizing oneself at the office,
doing the office dance
from chair to copy machine to water cooler to secretary.
no, the viola is dangerous
if it gets in the way of all this
–don’t you agree?
botticellean curves,
such a gaudi clockwork,
obedient spirit to dr. caligari,
but with a song escaping the silent film
–THE song
of the world
caught mourning in frightful sobs,
of evening.

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