Most Importantly, Philip Glass


It had been a long time since I heard someone play the piano right there in front of me
Xavier was his name, a concert pianist from Spain
He married, moved here and finished his career
Never wrote his own music, he thought, How?
There is so much beauty already

We had the auditorium all to ourselves
Big and empty, all lit up but cavernous

I asked him to play when I realized I hadn't heard him before
When I realized, most likely, that I wouldn't get the chance again

Before he did, he apologized, saying he remembered only a few pieces

Once he started, he struggled, at first, against a sticking D and rusty fingers
But still, he played for me

I struggled myself
I had not slept the night before and was weak with translucency
Or excess caffeine
And lied down on the floor below the stage
Before a row of seats

I stared up at the high ceiling
And the convex domes of glass that adorned it

Like bug-eyed rolls of light, they rang down little halos, wet
And vibrantly reflective of the music
And reflective of the liquid where the swimming light became sentiment
Raining down and counter-playing
Mad Rush
And
Mad Rush
And
Mad rush

A multitude

A lullaby to hypnotize and roll you up inside

A reintroduction to a lover: a girl who played piano herself, for me a time ago
Where I find myself again, in our tiny tomb, that claustrophobic practice room,
With fury stamped and stamping in your wrists, on and with your wrists and breast
And pounding with your shaking fingers, those arched and fierce and shaking fingers
That look to hold to keep your scarred and tender figure safe

Safe from crashing to the keys and receding in defeat

Your clambering bracelets like tambourines
And that tangled hair all frizzed about

With your back to me I disappeared
Into a peculiar brand of intimacy

There in the auditorium it was almost sleeping

Solely calm, the music played me like a dream