War Memorial Opera House

I stumble over middles, like music on a pebble that keeps humming other musics. swaying bridge. taught the music magic. walk. talk. can I buy that by the glass. successful sweeping down like crimson. crimson curtain. crimson smash. the smell of dust still whispering. is it starting or ending. swaying bridge. I remember stumbling as mine. my way. out of my shoes. to get the music out. what’s balleted up inside. a flapper, an air. house lights down. don’t have a lot of sway, these middle words. don’t forget. they can forge. musics. five six seven eight. sole answer in this troupe, I tell you. only one who can move. are we there yet. yes we are, yet. something’s in the air yet, the whole score in the key to success. the conductor’s arms quiver almost imperceptibly. it’s de. di. direction. with some sense of negation. what life is. toward. shoes and pebbles stuck in toes and toes hammered imperceptibly. music a. music and self-head-massage and swaging that speak. the keys bounce back, it’s on the way back, bebop and mind and mine bounced back. what I get for stumbling, a question like music that’s not sure it’s mine. like listening to the biggest ship in the wind. from the changing room. do I have to keep stumbling and the music. holy wind. that sways the verb. the b someone’s lip, the v someone’s tooth. third row orchestra. I can see her ankle bones. I see stumble sanctified. no it’s not mine, yes. a bridge to. music. from music.