The Soprano

The soprano was well practiced.
She was well practiced and I didn’t even see her
spinning the oxygen back from her mouth
without exchanging it.
Spinning the oxygen in loom lungs,
extracting strands
from airy fibers
and weaving them craftedly
through the orchestral weft.

I counted organ pipes,
ridges in the sound shells,
vertical ornaments imbedded in the hall’s edges.
The orchestra on my ears
almost tickled before
it burned,
fraying fiberglass edges,
clouds of brass
slipping into chaos without words
to hold the music together.