Dull, phantom rains of summer, particles
of the past come bombarding our single cat
living off the short electrons between the bow
and the arrow, when the hounds take down
the prey, and the boy is transformed into a
staccato. Boccherini’s castanets. a wolf stalks
its fourth movement, antlers of violoncello.
John C is both alive and dead, while the
notes of the song slide, with a gentle
touch of paw, Cicciotta reconstructs
the sonata, describing the early days of
the classical friend whose death was not
inevitable. So. It is morning on the guitar
mountains, blue incidental skies cough up
a cloud or two. Death to the unjust Gods.