Two pairs of wrinkled hands and eighty-eight smooth keys,some black, some white: so simple. Two pairs of hands, one
hundred and sixty-two years combined between them,like cords of thick rope …
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Two pairs of wrinkled hands and eighty-eight smooth keys,
some black, some white: so simple. Two pairs of hands, one
hundred and sixty-two years combined between them,
like cords of thick rope hoisting the curtain of a late act
in a long and richly-detailed play. Seven fresh-picked
daffodils in a tall blue vase on top of the piano, shivering
with each chord. One petal falls, and another. Candles,
white; flames, yellow; points of light in the dim room.
Two grey heads bent over the pages of Bach. See them
through the thick panes of glass that inexperience slides
before my younger eyes. Better, hear what they make:
no pantomime, but a frenzy; each note no fragile flower
but a flame, capering on a stiff thin stem; burning but alight.
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