[untitled]

Ravel glides through my fingers into air.

My touch is shaky, robe falling loose, aches span
my ribs, so tired. Not tired of thinking of you:
dark, broad chords spin out past the lamp’s circle.

Conjuring you into the room behind me:
would you turn away if I made a mistake,
would you leave the room, or stay and listen?

Would you come put strong hands lightly
on my shoulders, lean your hips, thighs
into my back, gently, not disturb my arms,

stand within the reverberant web of notes,
read with me the fine net of lines and figures,
silently share what only musicians know?

I play slowly, trying to never reach the last chords,
wanting to freeze this forward-spinning time, falling
that great distance, afraid to have to turn

and face the empty room.

[Los Angeles, 6/9-10/14/92]