I look at her.
She is sitting at the edge of the bed with a glass
of wine in her hand.
“Change the music, baby,” she says,
“it’s too much blues tonight.”
So I take out Miles Davis and put something classical.
some good piano.
She closes her eyes.
“Mmm, that is better,” she says,
I get up from the chair and sit next to her
and after two more bottles
again we fall in the abyss:
those legs swinging like the arrow of a metronome
those lips looking like cadenza finale
that body looking like a chorale prelude
I am lost here forever
and just before I fell
she looks into my eyes breathing heavily,
hers deep into mine,
she says,” What?”
and I didn’t say anything.
I just stare.
For such grace,
even Chopin would