A couple of poems about places of learning
set up in a liberal arts building.
Someone has idly set a record turning.
And a dead pianist jumps out of the grave.
In the halls, his limpid sounding masteries
of bone and ivory, metal thread-- and thread and sinew
echo.
And in a room where scraping chairs signal adjourning,
he breaks upon dissolution and fatigue with an inbound wave
as the first departure leaves the door ajar.
Alone among fretting voices, his forehead sweats and slow beads
form along his lips.
He has no smile for dull papers and all this harmless nonsense.
But he plays it out for them in his brilliant style, he
and the dead composer, until the disk is done,
and the room empties, and the wax relents.