Berlioz, Symphonie Fantastique

Fragmented, consumed by night,
this vision doesn’t come in peace,
but pieces – radiating bands of blood
and bruising blue compete with – lose
against – a flood – immensity – of black;
it’s hard to track the pink remains of face,
whose eyes – always the eyes! –

might offer symphonies of sense,
or even grace – or be so dense
and out of place and reach, there’s little
you can think to do to breach the distance:
his mouth is almost gone: right cheek
and jaw lost to whatever creeping law
determines an obliteration – whatever

mass of an abyss seems randomly to want
to swallow this: yet still you want
to follow this: experience the final kiss.
Existence is and isn’t, was and wasn’t.
Everything persists until it doesn’t.
Lah-di-dah-di-dah-di-day. Let tubas,
tympani and violins come out to play.


 
 
 
 
.