Ministrations
Among the voices, and the singers of Rossini’s An Italian Girl in Algiers
I heard as I asked the free-lance opera director if such a thing
I heard as I asked the free-lance opera director if such a thing
were possible, and the wind coursing around the house- the vocal
chords vibrate, silently speaking even the inimitable heard.
The glass of water ripples at your footsteps crossing the hard wood
floor, as you sashay your eyes across this line, and that other
ceaseless intonation that has you snatch my glass and drink it
right in front of me. That makes it suddenly full again.
A moment opening like a flower. Or a fist.
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