Tuesday, March 11, 2008


Beyond the drawn curtain of jagged pines, earthen-red rooftops are the stepping stones to a sparkling expanse of cerulean in the near distance; you skitter over the roof tiles as if you were a cat, pausing now and then to eavesdrop on the sounds below, lives ascending in shuffles and whispers up to your sharp feline ears.

And all the while, as if hatched from white boulders, cicadas spin a permanent afternoon out of the sun and heat and stillness: their cries stitch together the rags of a dream within a dream, a fabric torn suddenly by the sound of a drill...and after the filling’s been pressed and sculpted by a mouth full of gloves that could just as easily have learned to play Gaspard de la Nuit, I thank my dentist sincerely for his painlessness, and especially for hanging Cézanne's Vue de l’Estaque in just the right place.

Three conductors,
one concerto:
drills of different pitches
.......w .. h .. i .. n .. e
from the other rooms.

by Gary LeBel
Cumming, Georgia

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