Listening to Grappelli

Grappelli is in a corner
of the apartment  

his sound pervades the place,
though He evades it completely. 

 like he slipped in
when the curtains wavered forward
 like his notes slip past
their green cloth corners. 

--he's in the room
I'm watching the curtain swing 

some more.
Grapelli smiles a little with
fingerish ease. 

the curtains role--
        manifesting rainslick surprise,
Grappelli's bow sends off 

amorphous ladders that
suspend themselves
(massless) inbetween
the space of rests--
                 he says: climb up. 

Scry that is a weave of music:
   a woman's story
   in the man's song 

from her rooftop watch
she lets salt
temper her vision
not in tears 

just in virtue of
her satisfied gaze upon
a humid day of gold 

 (straying of sweat)
the understanding of the woman
    it is dolorous 

She's a tumble of roughness
   but (eventually) sweet after all
like the canvas curtain
occasionally, gently, flexing. 

in her hands she holds
stale bread--pronounced 

between carelessly stretched
fingers, at which birds bicker

    the pores
    of her neck exposed
    by glistening salt 

prompts Grappelli's cumulus dreaming  

(breeze blows
behind the curtains) 

Brushing some hair aside
she lets it pass, unceremoniously
        a strand absorbing salt. 

She thinks of the man's song
crumbling (with good messy human dignity) since
it is her story 

   spreading through
breezes playinglike one is yet to discover
every note--she knows his song.  

She's a description her
Grappelli's unclenched derivation
in salt sounds and the breeze 

of a whole E, which lengthens itself
into a form of wilder facts
        (after she teased and spirited
        a crinkling of the eyes) 

Grappelli's invitation to
dream of you.

An Obituary

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