Fontegaia reaches watershed.


Light pattering of lakewater along the rocks.
Cool air; strange sighing in the tamaracks.
Lead sky. Ineffable figures fingers make,
tripling across piano keys. Heartbreak.

Beneath immaculate octave-dance
implacable forces held in check.
Harsh steel's taut harp-neck,
yoked by calm endurance.

As tiniest calibrations of a brown recluse
enfold a pattern coiled in an attic room
for centuries... so ponderous doom
plights equilibrium (4 sides of Opus 1-3-2).

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