← v16n1, Spring 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 1

Schubert (with the volume turned up)

Measure after measure.

Lieder strung with barbed wire.

~

At this volume, the speakers tremble.

The German tenor, his voice

like ripened fruit with

the rot gouged out.

~

Too much grave in this Ave.

More despair than grace in her Maria.

~

On such an exquisite morning, how could one

do anything but sing? Spring-stirred hillsides,

cloud upon cloud like heaven’s battlements,

even the columns of smoke quickly dispersed

by a southerly breeze.

~

Immeasurable.

All those hollow black eyes gazing out

between the taut black staves.