Pink candyfloss clouds of the fin-de-siècle
raining fat-fingered chords and ragtime jokes
from Gallic heaven on this morning’s grade VIII
piano practice; a cathedral rising out
of a lake and a left-hand tenth I stretch
unbroken. Should we write only for God,
like Palestrina, write only for the waggish
ice-cream-licking pug approaching us
on the Boulevard Clichy? A cat’s paws
on the keyboard test the difference
between pp and ppp in time
to the washerwoman’s heels clicking
a habanera over the tiles, out of time with
my mother in the next room humming the tune.
We reject sweaty Wagnerian vehemence
and obligatory thunderstorms; we defend,
to the last drop of our café noir, Edgar
Allan Poe, the key of B♭ major,
and the interrupted cadence. Tickling
away at Des pas sur la glace over cocktails
at the North Pole, ‘Have you met…?’
I begin, when the ice under Satie’s
feet gives way, cutting him off mid-sentence.
‘Zut alors!’ tuts a duchess breaking a nail
as, fresher than icebergs, slier than
my breath freezing into a beard, my busy
fingers course with your warm, wise blood.