National Poetry Month: Poems About Music, 7/30

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?

Screen Shot 2013-03-23 at 2.29.27 PM
The first line of the Goldberg Variations.
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