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Splendid Carnival by Breslin White

Expansive but un-
tuned, the musician
lingered with his instru-
ment, talking at the
gala. His lips are un-
controlled: he speaks
passionately, a reedy
voice moving his
hearers, and he talks
from one to the next,
as, when playing, he
moves from a lower
to a higher note.

He excused himself
if the table behind
him, with its white
linen, attracts less
of the room than his
speech; if the cater-
ing and the fish,
so carefully braised,
stand off at a corner,
with the wooden
chairs. Yes, with his
white undershirt,
and black finishings,
his tuxedo was a
gamut, the pacing
of hooves, of horses,
from the beginning
to the end of a
spectrum, as when
a day turns into a
night, with the time
unnoticed. His
daughter, Melody,
will see them soon.
That his mouth
moved and his lips
O’d was his
conviction in
the style of music,
unbeknownst to him.
“Poetry is beauty,
and beauty is style.”


Photo by Ablimit Ablet on Unsplash