HALÁTNOST

HALÁTNOST

HALÁTNOST

He sleeps! He sleeps! A whisper passes round;
His orchestra is tiptoeing away
From the four-poster bed in which he lies
When someone knocks a cello through a bank
Of clarinets; wearily the players
Return to their sheet-music; this will be
Another long night in his company.
It could be dawn before they stumble through
The wild gardens of this ancient house
Where he, behind a leafy window sets
Upon his education – like a cat
Preserved in amber in an attitude
Of fury. To be seen to learn’s enough,
He told his henchman in a rare display
Of trust (betrayed – the henchman told the cook).
Tomorrow he will reference his paper
On characters crushed by falling pianos
In tragedy or comedy – but now
He cannot sleep; he is sick with worry:
For what if he is evil, after all?
What if this insubstantial kindness is
Another weapon? His brow creases up.
A piano hitched to the ceiling creaks;
The strands of twine will snap in perfect fifths
Before it falls – Oh, let it fall on me.

A dead aunt from a war-torn city sends
Three children – who arrive next morning, with a note
Of introduction; two boys and a girl.
Something in their expressions is askew –
Like people in Nineteenth Century scenes
Who did not imagine their faces would
Affect the outcome of the photograph:
We have different eyes now, eyes casting round
For the nearest reflective surface.
There are horrible opinions everywhere:
Like oil slicks. They must be kept indoors,
These children – he prepares for each of them
A pair of slippers and a dressing gown.