Rondeau, on attention My attention spans this bridge. This gap is a whole in my head, is a hole in my hands where I hold my world together, just an old vacancy between my stasis and my change. This thing that I twist and twiddle with is still, a list of paper chasing after folds. My attention spans more and less than I am. This space is a place that hides the kiss of time, hides it in every hole and makes me time’s churlish cuckold, held captive by all that has missed my attention.
...with Rondelet epigraph... A revision of this piece, written in early December, on the death of Dave Brubeck. Looking at this a while back, I realized that I completely missed a line in the rondeau form and finally got around to fixing it.
You made meter analytic and yet profound. You made meter part of sound that then grew sweeter. Then you took jazz and capped and gowned it, and with all you found around you, made meter. ~~~~~ You made meter a household word we all hung onto like a bird. We all wanted to be that free. You made it possible to see deeper into rhythms now heard every day, all around us, spurred deeper delvings into our world of pattern and texture. For me, you made meter a thing that I could touch, that stirred in me a poet, though much blurred by time and fickle memory. I am now still, able to see, now surfacing, how disinterred, you make meter.