And later on, returning home
after another of our walks,
with a turn of a key –
someone who’s forever
framed in a doorway, forever
re-locating himself behind a door –
what if, removing the dog’s lead,
I hear someone playing a piano,
am I somewhere someone else,
patron or king in salon or court,
or just myself, slipping out of time?
I listen: the dead pianist, back turned,
is pouring out, drawing out,
the way they do in middle movements,
modulating so many forms of pain.
The andante ends with a click,
silent as a scythe.
I turn cassettes and continue copying,
tape A onto tape B, allegro ma non troppo.
I see one of me settling into a chair,
improvising, copy upon copy.