The blind piano tuner
Sets his tools to work
He chooses the items carefully,
Placing them along the shelves of his infinite mind
And scans the array with his inner diamond eye.
The patches are not to be removed.
He shuffles … … …
Movement runs through his body like
Blue-streaked lightning and white sound
The notes fall off his fingertips
As he touches those strings gently
And starts to tune.
He is not a watchmaker
He cannot set things to work
Create machines and give them life
And tell them to proliferate and betray
Only alter the conditions: select
Organize and discard
His muscles twitching and his mouth
Frozen in the grip of a long-forgotten language
He cannot play the piano.
His feet imitate the movement
Of music along the keys
But the dance is muffled, mute
Nobody can hear anything as he
Shuffles along the endless corridors
Away from the grand piano
In his eternal home.
Where is the music?
Is it playing in the spheres when the spring air
Touches the first buds and kisses
Fly against the mellow colors of the sky?
Is it the icicle high-pitched percussion of permafrost ground?
Somebody must pull
The tripod chair up to the instrument--a noble mammoth
Sunk into an endless sleep--
And get down to it