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He keeps blowing
flowers
out of his flute.
Bubbling out, music
rises to the ceiling. We
float up, listening.
Rampal's gold flute
percolates over Bach's
rich dark grounds.
After the string concert,
wind in trees -
the unvarnished truth.
From his thin flute...
how did all these butterflies
fit inside it?
Perched on a stool,
the guitarist does the BEFORE
of a posture ad.
Grand piano
covered with books FOR SALE -
poetry reading.
Though I'm Jewish,
Christmas songs
remind me of childhood.
On top of the piano,
legs up, the piano bench --
exercising?
How long has this tune
been in the head I thought
mine.
Listening to music,
wondering, why to these sounds,
why just these?
Radio music.
Somewhere, some time, people
make this music.
Gray dawn. The Fourth
Brandenburg doesn't give a damn!
"Make my day," says Bach.
(The music stops.)
What did you say? (That light-fingered
pianist stole my ears!)
We sing old songs,
laughing at quaintness. Crickets
keep chirping.
On a piano
my fingers stumble across poems
I'll never write.
Passed in the hall,
someone whistling a tune
I loved once.
I'd dance to Bach,
but body's dance can't keep up
with mind's.
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