in which we are a pre-dream
My piano is trying to communicate with me, Tim said.
But I have isolated myself from my surroundings,
and not in the way that is conducive to inspiration.
I’ve tried a few methods to gain access, but have only
distanced myself further. When I play, I hear only one note.
Perhaps this is because I have tuned the piano that way.
But I thought if I could hear its longing and lilting melody
in one note, I could hear anything.
How do my contemporaries deal with melody?
Do they know where it occurs? I do—
in the mind that receives it. Listen to this, Tim said
playing nothing. Do you hear what I hear?
That beautiful melody? It is already within us.
Tim was sorting through his compositions.
I won’t need any of these. In fact, I don’t need
the piano either, but I admire it aesthetically.
Without composition or instrument, my thoughts
dance down the promenade in unison.
You may have witnessed a similar scene in a film,
shelved in some archive, forgotten.
As I picture it, the pace of the dance slows
until they are asleep beneath a banyan tree.
Tim yawned as he peered over my shoulder.