Three quarters of a stanza ago
You changed the rhyme scheme.
The poets don’t rhyme no more — in the land
Meter makers claim that they understand
But they hardly know:
Every time you push my heart
My heart goes to you.
In every line you draw down my chest
Like Galileo, a blinded geometry lingers
On unarithmetical fingers
Like in the piano song you play
As you hear the strains of joy
Through muted pain cut through.
I rest my hands on the wall, imitate you play,
And I know that that that singer can be but you.
And as you play, they say, the passion of the moment
Moves you that you sway that,
Perhaps, that is why this melody cannot be heard everyday.
And then, it stops.
As if on instinct of you being heard — there it fades.