b.z. niditch | at nabucco


We met
in the mezzanine
at Nabucco
a foreign body
weighing in
at an operatic pole
a stranger
opposite me
near the stage
of prophetic words,
her hand emerges
from an Italian suit
to shake mine
at a well appointed
adolescent time,
as we began
our weekly trek
to the Met
in a wonder struck way
with attraction
for stormy voices
attuning themselves
with a diffused melody
which echoes
never leaving me
like any other love
to this day.

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