poems
A Box at the Opera
Into some country where sopranosBeautifully rage and range, arrangingEchoes beyond the score’s intention,I watched you travel. All was hung there:Ourselves buoyed up in a box by darkness,The faint oval glitter across the theatre,The stage suspended in a gilt rectangle.Who is to know when music’s angelArrests its flight and, whirring downward,Stops to undo its gold illusion?The