Brad Bassler: Moldavian Folk Wedding

I saw a group of Moldavian square-dance musicians
At a countryside wedding performing a Beethoven sonata,
Dressed in studded leather jackets. The wine was lovely,
And freely flowed. None of the visitors to this event
Seemed fully aware of its confectious atmosphere of trust,
But enjoyed it, amidst old disputes and bitter squabbles.
The music came in layers, arose like steam off the river
Which ran through the center of town, next to the church.
No one noticed when the river disappeared, the steeple
Gleamed greenly for a moment, and the temple vaporized.
It was the inside of a blistering heat, this side of eternity.
There were no more lost children, no worries about etiquette.
Everything stopped in mid-sentence. And the execution was
Complete: not a speck missing. What if you had wanted
To cover it on the evening news? But it would not be wrapped
For cultural dissemination. There are some clothes best left
In the giant wardrobe. I mean the freestanding kind we used
Before the advent of walk-in closets. Sometimes a temporary
Shortage of memory keeps me from writing straight through.
The end is unimaginable. We can never make it seems so near.

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