Orpheus

Orpheus, 52, Is Survived by His Parakeets Blazoning with brazen hand to reach into the immensity of this feeling pit, trace out sinews, sulfurous in acidic cipher jellied to delicate pearl, aureate searing stronger than the nothing darker still and lucid in spite of the darkness—this is the order, this inimitable Macht: to bring back beloved forms with a mind unpracticed at such depth seems capable of conception, possible, perhaps possible, but ultimately prone to miscarriage of its ultimate pretension, a falling of the mortal word.

Far better to live to tell the tale, affect the trappings, tweeds with a pipe, a beret in the park, Italian coffee and Italian shoes mingling to dog-ear a French obscurity rubbing a French goatee. In a time grown blind with its age, the right hair might claim birthright laurels for hands feeble as these.