Six feet from the rim the old vertigo begins.In the tall grass flattened and gone to seed.In the white glare of the October sun.
Afterwards the cheerful birds still woke me—bands of crows blaring,
and the darling sparrows chirping for their lives. Somebody had died.
Who has not thought of Johann Sebastian Bach—and please pronounce That good man’s good name in German, whether you can or not—seated At the keyboard of who cares what delubrum in the splendor of his isolation Within the church of sound? The...