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Titans on ice

The organ player coats the covered ice
and its fiercely skating combatants.
What if it was Bach, with a fugal tune,
that floated the demanding crowds
and the paid interval of breathing?

What does the cat care
for the televised action,
or the turtles in their tank.
But it is Bach that takes me
back to the cemetery,
back to the basic fold of the scene,
to the trenches of everyday life.

It is wild expressions that dilate
the spectators pupil, the expectation
of all possible outcome.
Thus the paid for commentary
rest in the aftermath of gravestones
planted in the after worth.

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