Rameau

Twins don’t die,

they go to France.

And thus

we are in Paris. Moved, midnights,

bone by bone.

We are like saints, in this one regard.

Rameau

fills theaters with our names, gives us words:

our story,

in a language neither of us understands.

How easy it is to say

that one venerates the object one forbids oneself to love.

Pollux

or Castor? We’ve lost track of our parts—

Every moment

that I breathe on earth

is a happy moment

I steal from his loving heart.

Castor or Pollux?

Or have we been given, likewise,

new names—

And this, only Acte Deuxième.

Rameau gives one of us a question.

But who is asking, who is asked?

Implications of which

darken as we learn about this Rameau:

all the charm, all the energy

of music

 is in the harmony; melody

being only a subordinate part,

giving to the ear only a slight and sterile

pleasure—

Who sings this?

The question:

Pleasures.

What do you. Want

from me.

Our names

no longer matter:

And thus—

no need to regard these

as real persons.

We may be real, but on the other hand—

they may be only the Dioscuri

over again.

Pleasures, what do you want

from me?

We are told

in a certain town in Illyricum

a temple—

perhaps of the Dioscuri themselves—

was turned

into a Christian church under the patronage

of SS Florus and Laurus.

We are told

we were found on a vase from Vulci

along with Leda—

one arm

a spray of flowers:

the other stiffening, the branch of laurel.