When the curtain falls
the oboe players exhale,
the soprano takes her bow
on stage,
and even the bass players
feel a sense of renewed time.

When the curtain falls
on the opera
the piccolo returns to its case,
lofty punctuation
quieted. The small, the mighty, vanquished.

When the Grand Opera concludes
the vacuum left behind
refills with the mundane.
Reality intrudes.
We see our fellows,
our smiles perplexed
and smudged with the debris
of conclusion.
Air ringing,
echoes of chords
once clearly enunciated,
pathos, logos, ethos,
vaporized.

Grand Operas conclude and
transcendence, that soul caressing
gift, remains ephemeral.
The overture,
anticipatory by
design,
experienced long ago, now synoptic dust.
Forward chords, moved
by tension and
relaxation, retreat to hidden space.
Left to our own devices
we crawl in suit jackets and pearls,
hard, dark,
separated.

The music lives in memory
where beauty’s smooth flank nudges us,
note by note,
unexpectedly.
Staff paper
receives inspiration,
as wriggling nascent epochs.
We are scattered
spots inked by Lucia’s blood.
She sang. Our ears cupped grace.
We are entwined.
Our tears and laughter rush the stage.
We are the Grand Opera.