for Pascal Harris
I
A box in which J. S. Bach
was once carried
not contained
so much as
elaborated upon
two dolphins
transecting
the upraised lid
of the virginal
the long, pale room.
II
To play the keyboard is to
live
beside a river. We were
revisiting Maxwell Ave
Pascal, at nine,
playing from memory
the infant Bach
upon the upright
the variable Goldbergs.
III
The playground’s
swing, pendulum
metronome
the garden providing
its own accompaniment.
This plucked
and unplucked world.
Plectra.
IV
Again we were at sea
or not, part way through
the final movement, sheets
lifted from their stand
by a gust. From there it was
memory carried
the music, the well-ordered air—
by waterspout, tidal surge
and dolphin box, delivering it
note-perfect back, at last,
to silence. Memory
the long, pale room.