Music, from a Distance
(For the lady pianist I chanced upon on YouTube)
The only thing I know is that the distance is real.
But the invisible hand of happenstance,
which gestures as if there were indeed something there
in the absence of things imagined, keeps holding me back,
directing me to believe that there is a knowing
—a silent note waiting to be keyed in—
wafting from the melodies that churn as her deft fingers
dance on the keyboard in a time already past.
This knowing either she or I know not of.
Because there is no exactness of contact,
no dire need for acquaintance.
From where I perceive her, she is perpetually postured
on the piano, filling the air with telling tunes.
From where I sit, I remain an unnoticed spectator of her recital
even if it is not really her there but a mere concept frozen in time.
I can applaud for eternity without her
catching a glimpse of me or hearing the sound of my palms
recurrently colliding. But this will not matter.
For who can tell if neither distance nor imagining can yield tactility?
Who can tell when her playing will finally stop
and when it again will commence?
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