The Dead Pianist, My Father
Lindeman, Jack
The Dead Pianist, My Father So far being that distance, a star dance, a planetary excursion, one goes never coming down again. I dream him near, but this is not talk, this is not giving him...
...Is his boredom colossal needing a book on the knobs of his knees or a mouth's harangue to pester the holes in his head...
...Yet without ears what can he play strictly without memory...
...He in his bones must lie down whether he sleeps without eyes or is simply indifferent...
...What one imagines softens the flesh while stone continues to incarcerate whatever is left of his height and weight...
...He in his bones cannot dress himself...
...A war he knew which snipped a finger from his musical hand...
...It was this way he drove, this gesture containing his anger, and where he went perhaps a footprint survives because no one else has walked there yet...
...I dream him near, but this is not talk, this is not giving him words to be happy about...
Vol. 129 • August 2002 • No. 14
