The critic judges in the glorious silence
a composer floats on.
You cannot judge—you play.
The composer passed away—on the same day
you made his music speak to oblivious audiences.
“I practiced on and on.”
You are tethered to feel and tone. Your eyes
look down. You are too skillful to be alone.
“I do not decide which composer to play
or where or when I play.” The unconscious loves you.
That famous trill—where has it flown?
Is it lonely in Mozart’s golden yesterday?
When you played that passage, I heard you groan.
How does it feel to hold hands with a god?
“The next note is constantly alone.”