These Arias

Bruce Berger

The yearly cold dip
   Into twelve-tone, the classical shrine's overblown
   Facade. And somewhere in every line-up
   A deeply involving theme
   Withstood its trial by ravishment to return
   In such pure celebration it was time
   Itself, two nights in thirty, that swam upstream,
   Branched, unfolded, spawned, evolved,
   Renewed itself in a universe running down.

   Outsitting three conductors, five concertmasters,
   An orchestra replenishing itself
   Like a body changing cells, the listener,
   Clutching at last a younger elbow
   To reach, just to the left, the fifteenth row,
   Besieges time that blurs from year to year,
   Until the inevitable night
   No player, under the stage lights' glare,
   Senses the absent hearing, heartbeat and sight
   That filled a particular chair.
   The baton rises for the next listener there.

                THESE ARIAS

The last shower you take in a favorite house,
A novel whose pleasure you'll never repeat, one flawless
Sunset watch the evening before departure-
This inflammation of the unceasing lastness
Of every untorn thing will rend your heart,
Will hollow empty halls for melancholy
To draw its deadly whisper through your marrow
Repeating useless, useless the way addio
Runs through Italian opera, its plaintive cadence
Crumbling into the wings, vanquished by Clio.
These arias can only be ridden out.
Farewell, irreplaceable shirt. Goodbye, old car.
Forgive tomorrow's absence, fond café.
Poor faithful chair, abandoned at Goodwill.