She opened strange doors
The spirits of these singers have been haunting me lately; and Sannion wrote a poem. the two seem to have occasionally collided.
I take your hand,
soft and delicate
as a dove’s wing,
but with the purity, strength,
and courageous spirit
of the castrati animating it
and we step through the mirror
and find ourselves in Paris
watching Orphée et Eurydice
amid a crowd of shadowy figures
with blank white masks
where they should have faces,
but do not.
And beside us,
as if he’d been there all along,
is Arlecchino with his long, lithe dancer’s legs
stretched out over the seat in front of him.
He turns to grin at us
and we see ourselves reflected in the
mirror shards where his eyes should be,
except everything in that place is opposite here,
backwards and behind the curtain territory.
His mad grin widens
until his large mouth seems ready
to split in half,
and then he let’s out a tittering laugh,
then holds his too long,
too white finger
View original post 62 more words