the circle is two dimensional

there will come a day when the undertaker

will strip us of our clothes.
we’ll lie in brightly lit rooms on tables of stainless steel

unlike the tables we're used to with nobody else around

unlike the rooms we've come from.

––this happened to Tommy Imbriglio, early drowned

below still water at the foot of his fatal ledge, and to Peter Cipollini,

rolled beneath the wheels of the "NEHI" grape-soda truck on Bedford

between the right-field fence and the pumps at Whitey's Esso, and

to Sandra D'Adamo, fifth grade, vandalized by leukemia, replaced

with formaldehyde and to star-crossed luminaries like Jayne Mansfield.

––the population therein is bloodless and silent.

there is no praying. time's up. no one is vying for favored returns.

there’s no one to vote against when the machinery of life does not exist

and unlike the pastoral images pushed our way by early catechism pamphlets,

small furry animal life is nowhere to be found.

––who then will lead us to the lamb of god?

residing in stasis we are dressed for exhibition,––

the terrible suits of clothes, the ultimate afterthought,
the patting of powders and the always intrusive lily-
scented perfumes spritzed to our faces to close the deal
after pathologists complete the prosecution of our livers
whenever foul play is suspected.–– but first,

residing in the here and now, the sonorous

mezzo opens the wrenching "Lament" of "les Nuits d'été"––

the collective whoosh of formal material accompanies 
as the first violins attack with the strokes of their bows
across the strings of their instruments.

with Frederica von Stade / Symphony Hall, Boston /  October, 1983.