Her voice was a thing out of Gormenghast.
A melancholic melody pierced; deep and unknowable.
It was then that the poem got out of hand.
(Mists of Avalon)
The prose started—interrupting, until it stopped.
A violent violin waited; taut and quivering.
It was then that the conjuring began.
(Rushing rivulets of tone)
His rhythm was a storm from the Odyssey.
A broken bark stampeded; quick and thunderous.
It was then that the words lost all meaning.
(Ad hoc amnesia)
The mood spoke—clear, as a murky rain
A perfect porcelain floated; bright and lifeless.
It was then that the flowers wept.
(The performance of By Chance, The Cycladic People begins at 53:52. It was part of Seattle Art’s and Lecture’s: Evening with Anne Carson)