Sometimes I sit at the piano and shape chord forms freely in space,
handsome constructions of arched fingers in opposing motions,
in search of dissonance over harmony

While she randomly intones beautiful sonority, sounds like words
aimed at the more resonant chambers of the room, her voice round
with a touch of rasp to engage the world-weary

Her melody shifts at odd intervals, the tempo-free meter floats
in time and heart, in perfect poise aligned without tonic,
we resolve at will, or not at all, the upper partials of our tensions

We modulate to a better point of view on life, its victories
and more often of late, its sweet despairs, which no one key
can capture, paint, hold or release

How many times we have stopped mid-phrase
and have kissed madly – over the top – operatic,
without losing the tone nor the shape of our song

Chagall 2018
(This is a revised excerpt from an earlier piece found here)

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