Sat on the stool, leant slightly forward
arms outstretched, fisted fingers
spring like startled spider’s legs.
He casts his eye on the manuscript
that shapes his hands.

His rippling fingers hang like hawks,
his mind jumps back through syncopated time;
songs never sung, concertos never played,
soaring in his mind.

Falling on the keys he racks the tune.
Yes! Music was an easier exercise
its language more obscure and free:
had not the gravity of sticky words
that gather up old songs
heavy with reason’s harmony
firing the fragile pathways
of the mind.


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