Classic Poem

The music touches me with your hands.
Contained in my body and in this glass
where my lips bulwark miniature waves,
all of me thinks only of the music
coming with your breath to absorb me

Object of its sound,
of its mild, liquid splinters, my blood
curdles in the wait, in the chance
with its vague intentions, its broad aim.

The music searches for me, finds me, penetrates me
with the feel of a claw over a rug,
almost like the sun's passage through large rooms
left deserted, doors and windows open, overflowing with the air
awake at dawn, that had not slept all night.

I am its victim, its heart
welcoming the onslaught of the blood,
which begins with the stroke of your fingers,
still warm from igniting the morning,
setting off the movement of sap in the stems,
pushing the day to begin, the season in bloom,
and yet with a thin film of powder
like the trace of the pollen that they
invented to inaugurate the ultimate Spring.
Navigating hands,
variegating hands,
governing hands in the proceedings of music,
touch me in the peace of my remoteness,
make me recognize myself,