the invention of wings in two lines

Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel (for cello and harp) | Fred Tomaselli’s Expecting to Fly (2002)

Sounds to listen to in the harp of night. Cello odors hold up the air, as on the far edge of the horizon a thin rain begins to fall. “The story, where’s the story?” Puffed-up giggling, stiff-backed forthwith. Nonplussed feelings for a second, and then “Oh no, it’s just…sheer stuff of Dreams.” How to burst out singing, singing, singing as far as the song can go, like a shrill chanting exploding and stretching out of sight? “An extremity of love,” you guess…

It was once upon another time. Now, polluted senses blurred eyes brutal gasps cough sigh cough. Clouds & wah-wah…pooow! Squeezed together like fingers frozen to the spot. Where are you? They. They are. So we, where’s the where in which the wish’s begun to stir? For us. To see. And see. See & skin. Even more vividly. No bottled-up ivories, crooked swords, no swords, what’s less, what’s more? “Oh babe, it’s sheer stuff of Dreams.”