Fairy Godfather

Quentin Crisp, whom
I was privileged to know,
once, and ever, manageably
evidenced this glow:

manifesting essence so
entirely in touch with
its upwelling springs
and outward interactions –

as if his human being
were a silent symphony –
that he could not avert
experience of sympathy

with what and how the world
and each of us must play –
alert to fleeting nuance
and to all the flapping

splay of its unnerving
context: so, today, when
I must trundle out my
violin and lend it to my

temperament and to
the uses of a larger music –
its eruption and its wisp –
I shall think of Mr. Crisp.


.