By Kona Macphee
From the final, faultless premiere (those rich necks chilled by his swansong Sixth, that requiescat quaking the trombones), the portents swelled in crescendo premonition:
the dinners with old friends; the creamy taper of his last baton, laid to its satined bed like the long shank of a pale and lovely boy;
the subtle prescience of future crowds whose ghostly tribute massed on Nevsky Prospect;
the secret life in a clear glass of water.
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