Vol. 2, No. 4: Malice at the Ice Palace photo

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.