WEBVTT

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A couple of poems about
places of learning

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set up in a liberal
arts building.

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Someone has idly set
a record turning.

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And a dead pianist
jumps out of the grave.

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In the halls, his limpid
sounding masteries

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of bone and ivory, metal
thread-- and thread and sinew

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echo.

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And in a room where scraping
chairs signal adjourning,

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he breaks upon dissolution and
fatigue with an inbound wave

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as the first departure
leaves the door ajar.

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Alone among fretting voices, his
forehead sweats and slow beads

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form along his lips.

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He has no smile for dull papers
and all this harmless nonsense.

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But he plays it out for them
in his brilliant style, he

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and the dead composer,
until the disk is done,

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and the room empties,
and the wax relents.

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