Losing Violet (or Burgher, gardener, gamba man)
A provincial cathedral, after a musical performance
Queue to shake his hand, father?
I’m thirty-two –
I told you son he is master of the viols.
And look at you, still a lout. Besides, I paid ten crowns.
But what about the mound father? You said my dwarf
delphiniums are a flamier blue than brother’s
jugular violets. The lost Violet they never knew
who phrased her arms with such creamy fluency.
Take care son to lower your gaze, not drowning him
in the jakes of those belladonna eyes.
The great love missed because of dreaming
about her father, the screaming alderman.
Place your vanquished mitts in his and believe
in the scar on his bowing hand, the genius in you
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