—for
Marilyn & Kirk
Soft
tracings of shadows on the sill,
late
afternoon in the unconservatory.
The
chocolate stillness inside
the
voice rises up in place of speech,
small
nuances, a brass color-note,
flared
nostrils, the contact of skin.
Four-handed
improvizational foreplay on the keyboards.
Two
pianos discuss familiar phrases,
like
the long-married, finish each other's thoughts,
sometimes
in chorus, sometimes in tandem.
You're
the yell in the forest, I'm the echo,
Kirk
says to Marilyn as they play it again.
Imagine
Casablanca, or Havana in a red wedding dress.
The
mysterious marriage of two styles: classical & jazz
shape-shift
into music for the end of the millennium.
He
is a sailor leaning into the open octaves
of
a turquoise melody: bluebirds learn slant rhyme.
She
is the swimmer in pastoral snow fields.
Everything
reduced to black and white
cleanses
the palate & the roses bleed onto the piano keys.
The
melody escapes, anneals the heart’s blood with opposites:
day
& night, diamond & onyx, ebony & ivory.
Each
seeks the other’s eyes through corbelled piano lids.
I
can’t tell where one piano leaves off and the other begins.
Poco
a poco, an echo in the forest
lifts
the timbre from the pool's depths.
At
the bottom of the well, cross-currents,
a
vibration in the water, like electricity
when
the wall comes up duet—
Both
are one; one is all there is.
No comments:
Post a Comment