Opera Lesson Poem by Terence Winch

These Indian pictures never lie.
Their rules against extravagant innocence
are always religiously obeyed. Old people
must smoke in a room without glass,
standing next to white window curtains,
thinking of men who 'walk like trees.'
Clocks are forbidden. People who tend
to suffer too much are always housed
with drunks in apartments filled with gas
from thousands of candles. Infidels gather
in meeting rooms, all absolutely clean and tidy,
all bathed in moonlight, where they study
the art of percussion, sitting apart
on heavy benches.

There is no anxiety here. The skies are pillows
of spotless white. As you walk the streets,
you think about milking cows or you plan
on baking something later in the day. Deviation
is not uncommon, however. That is why many villagers
copulate on the dining room table. There is also
an admonition against falling asleep in the cellar,
where unclean spirits may embellish your faults.

When I got here, I lay down beside your wreckage
and rubbed your clothing all over my body.
Later I watched strangers, their eyes wet with
forgiveness, embrace in stark hallways,
as if some instinct compelled them, like animals
or lovers, to mark the night in ancient whispers.