Der Rosenkavalier
four hours of geometric hats
wider than absurd:
clowns, dandies, maskers,
cutpurses dressed like prunes,
orbiting Alice Coote in the trouser role
while she kisses Sophie,
kisses the Marschallin,
sapphic pianissimo
cresting to arias on diva pouts.
the boorish Baron
galumphing after skirts,
froward madman,
cannot forestall the spell of the rose.
when petals gleam from tufted stars,
Sophie and Octavian to emblazon and bless,
it enraptures the gleeful audience.
comical evil, orchestral sobs,
garish menageries, yes,
the opera reeks of farce,
and yet it melts in waltzes
away from the the rose.
without such effloresce,
the plot languishes.
because of it, frissons and sighs
all the way home.
me and Kit
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