David Henson
The metronome
calls it out! It goes on until it
segments sound, objects, light
and darkness, everywhere the boy has
played in his rebellions.
Unfair, the veil is pulled back,
letting in surreptitious green.
Then decimated, a clouded glowing,
his guardian, misted beating:
rhythm, rhythm, rhythm.
Coils of balcony, and music stand
quivery in harmony. Tones
descend in the player’s concentration,
rain on a windowpane,
the nameless.
To be on the other side of that bridge –
watching the youth pass,
Matisse center, where there are
no such promissory notes. Gasp:
measure, measure, measure.
Recuerdo I
Hernando Rico Sanchez