And who am I? I am the one who listens
To Beethoven’s Leonore: I imagine she was
Plump, a pretty girl worth note, for whom the score
Was filled with storms of trumpet (thundering in a way
To suit that strumpet‘s taste). And who are we?
And who were they? Was feeling sensual
Today, while the drums drummed and the bullets
Hummed and, the notes on language
Overcome, he filled his letters and his lungs
With sighs, and why won’t David write?
Awaking in the middle of the night, I dreamed
I saw his face. The light (we will not ask
From where, I who feel the bare
Floor and you who with brave derriere
Probe the cushions of your chair) is pale
Across the channels of an English
Lip, hand quivering on [what follows I omit].
What more is there to say? History, logic,
And love all lisp together in -- a singular lay.
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