Horowitz Tonight

Precise blocks of the keys and he
brushes them in the inner chamber
of all our ears. His fingers,
white as babies. The notes
beaming across cold deserts or ice
that has stayed maybe a million years.

Notes coming back again -
past storefront lights and
reflecting signs along the streets.
Curled weight and infancy in his hands,
threadlike lines running through.
These

are the old webs of work -
some eighty years of agility.
This, the year of blurry smiles.
Keys and wire sing distance away
to lost points far from the city.
Chants where an unexpected love

hums absent-minded in silence,
silence,
silence.

 

© Tim Bellows