An Elegy for Bob Sura's Third Straight Triple DoubleDarren C. Demaree
The rudiments of any tempest
are an empty room.
The polyphony
of an average man
finishing his performance
with a bow before a bow
before a bow is enough
music for me. What beast
in what territory
of darkness would reach
into the throat
of an artist living through
profane beauty
& remove the yell’s
ricochet? God dammit,
what sort of medieval kiss
& thievery leaves
us pregnant with a sadness
that does not matter at all,
even a little, even with
the gambler’s audience?
We saw what we saw.
The rudiments of any tempest
are an empty room.