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Jan 142011
 

by Daniel Wilcox

she cadences the leavened dusk,

a sweet musician of the love-summer night

opposite from the Haight far coasted away;

her cute auricles dangle Beethoven notes,

in this late 67 Philly rock cave of peaceniks,

while outside world-round Nam explodes;

a concerted violinist with me, her conscientious objector,

we’re subjected to sought blasting,

only 10 feet from the blockbuster speakers,

utterly noise-‘numbled’ by Moby Grape

in the dark flashing psychedelic night–

thundered down,

in trashcan-split,

eardrummed crescendo;


but then she, my classical lover,

plugs her aural openings

close-fingered shut,

fearing tonal loss–like her mentor,

oh, my dear earstopper.