Sometimes the music is locked
in the earth's body, matter-
of-fact, transforming itself.
So our work could seem useless,
even tautological, as if music
were weather, as if there were never
practice, finger-oil on the keys,
dust in the curtains like the silence
that hates music, parents
to disappoint, small frauds the teacher is paid
to endure but endures for her own
reasons. But the garbled, ill-
believed hymns rise from the piano
on payments. And any God I care for
rakes them in and loves them,
though I don't want to hear
the jokes God makes to love them
unless I be one of those jokes.
