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    Tveitt finds himself in the lives of strangers--descending
   an unsteady ladder of fish bones into the midst of a dinner party;
   walking the streets of an unknown town with fiddle strings
   firmly binding his ankles. Someone throws a pickle at his head.
   He wakes when he wakes with muscles aching and bruises
   coloring him head to foot. His music is abducted, the felt of his
   hammers wrung like sponges. He wants to hide, he tries
   to hide, but is always uncovered. They lecture him on his intended
   meaning, elucidate his intent. Staff lines are wielded against
   him in the war of sound versus sense. He is pulled into a parade,
   patted on the back by bosom friends he can't tell from Adam.
   In the private rooms of dowagers he is made to recite stale verses
   from Dante and Ole Bull, to approve the bust chiseled of him
   and declare art an appointment plucked from a shoe store window.
   All he can do is wait for the sisters to appear among them--
   to set his broken bones with fluttering hands, to calmly assure him
   that he is not after all alone, nor is he the decoction of minds
   bent to the business of self-deceit, or futures ground from old salt.
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Author:Ewing, Jeff
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2018
Previous Article:KRASNOYE SELO.

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