Conducting my shadow with
a lash of eye and baton of breath,
we see-saw the hypotenuse of
her small office. This Juggernaut
knows the score and does not refer
to notes. Her wrist keeps time
for masked glances, while
Kleenex counts the strain.
I fidget pauses, my opus tapped
in Morse. Words relay the distance
between my shoes and hers.
Step a mile, step a mile through origins
and intentions: nursery rhymes, alleluia,
one, two, three, marzipan moments gutted
and parcelled as tithes. I percuss
from prelude to crescendo,
phrases from beaten skin:
missa cantata in memoriam.
A hand stands to stave the hour.
The maestro rounds for closure
and arranges the next epiphany
in a diary clotted with unfinished
symphonies. My pockets bulge
with sodden tissues and enough
change to get me home.