I wanted the huge applause after the silence.

Wanting to cleave clearly in the mind

the wooden chopping boards of the house

into piano keys,

and the long tables of the dining room

into some imagined concert: Do you hear it?

Yes? Do you not since then not realize

this grand scale?

The poor boy is playing a sonata

in his head, yes? Yes. Now. (Pushed

into agreement as if pushed by birth

into an empty room without choice

and flowers for wallpaper and a mirror

kept blind dark in a drawer)

There was a piano, once, in my head.

And a stage. And the world surprised

by what had been found. Difficult piece:

the left hand flying over the right

and the air-pedal stepped through and clean

to sustain. And all the world standing

behind kitchen counters and the dinner plates

waiting for the imagined overture

to complete its applause:

If only there was no need to explain.

If only the real thing was as clear

and as audible as

once the beautiful music.

*

Brown beaver in a stream

and the grass green

Small girl on a swing

and a bird wing

And because he thinks it’s meant to be spring,

he colors the clear edges of all living

things in his piano book--

Where the paw touches sharp the blades

of the green patch and the bare arm

of the blonde girl arcs her slender

reach to the sun. And old Brahms who lifts his hand

in a wave, even if this is meant to be

a slow waltz he’s playing, and a packed

piano concert hall he’s set in where a bright

blue blazer’s not the right suit