Say it's snowing on 57th Street on a particular morning in February, 1904. Meanwhile, outside, someone we once knew, or think we did, boards a trolley going downtown on Seventh Avenue. Thinking of nothing at the moment, he watches the curb, while, at the same time, across the street, the engineer from Victor Gramophone notes the place where the second disc starts. Un solo istante, Caruso sings, an event in wax, an entry in the sum of all sounds otherwise made but lost. Tonight we listen to that mezzo-voce as if it were the last of our flat and scratchy connections on the turning surface of an old and brittle planet.
Someone's at the door, a surprise.
She has green eyes. What I have is that bird's nest fern beside the rocker, cut irises in the blue swirl vase, and this company. Let the music take care of itself. This is what I have. This is what I want.