In the classroom across the whiteboard
we saw that music is made of nothing but time
that it all depends on memory and the small
discordant moments that make music the right word.
Over a line of measures scaling the length of
my arms and legs the notes float to a rhythm
like the rhythm of a little kid. Keys change;
accidentals spot the page; the margins full of scribbles.
Bar after bar stretches out beneath my scalp
imprinted in bacteria and scars that make
my twenty years with calm refrains like Christmas;
andante grazioso, a graceful walking pace.
When exams were over and the board erased
they took all our metronomes and explained that
it was up to us: mosso or mene mosso.
organ of criticism