The movers get it out—a Steinway grand,
half-rolled, half-carried to the street. A crowd,
molecular, implicit, is at hand
already. Music hovers meanwhile, proud
to weave into the day its ideal strand.
A pianist appears, hirsute and browed
like Rubinstein. Who would not understand
this may be Art? He pauses, turns. A loud
commotion follows. Noise? No, it’s a chord
by Beethoven that crashes on our ears.
Attention, everyone! Those who are bored
may leave. The rest are lifted to the spheres
as flights of sound riff on, a rippling stream.
The city is, for now, an angel’s dream.
—Catharine Savage Brosman
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
How to Belong Without Losing Oneself
Whenever someone like Candace Owens or Nick Fuentes posts “ragebait,” it’s not difficult to predict how my…
Can These Bones Live?
The Saturday after Easter, on a cloudless morning, I fell and shattered my left elbow while taking…
Paul Celan’s Via Negativa
In the twentieth century the messengers shot themselves. Most did so metaphorically, of course, though a few…
