to Lars Gustaffson
rumble and hiss on the street below.
Cars whoosh in the rain,
their breaks sounding like piccolos.
(Didn't John Cage say that the modern sound
of silence is the noise of traffic?)
Faint strains of last night's recital
arise through the din: Bach's
Sonata for Harpsichord and Violin in A Minor.
The three voices of the opening canon
wend together like polyphonic flâneurs.
(A trio, Bach said, for two.)
In the kitchen, my tea-
kettle shrieks for relief.
Dogs bark and doors slam;
a train bays at the disappearing moon.
And Bach's notes balance on the finger tips
of my memory before taking
flight into the pink daybreak.