Introit & Fugue
By D. Nurkse
After death, my father
practices meticulously
until the Bach is seamless,
spun glass in a dream,
you can no longer tell
where the modulations are,
or the pedal shifts
or the split fingerings . . .
if he rests
it’s to wind the metronome
or sip his cup of ice . . .
but who is the other old man
in the identical flannel gown,
head cocked, listening
ever more critically,
deeper in the empty room?
A Few Reasonable Words 