from his own blue id
in the instant that he sings out his melody
we find a bridge
a bandage for an injured ego
then a bold opening to the sun
not only for someone else
but for his own ear
piano/forte
beyond the usual tuning
not little birds’ partying
or musicians mistaking his tune
but from the resounding liveliness of his nature
as the notes die down a kind of coda:
the restrained plucking of violins
Nicholas Power 