I don’t even own a copy of Eva Salzman’s New & Collected book, Double Crossing yet, but I enjoyed this poem about playing music (badly) and the start of summer so much that I wanted to share it. I suspect that when I finally get the book, I’ll want to share some more.
It couldn’t have been my Beethoven Bagatelle.
My jagged spring from C to higher C,
with E a stepping stone, did not go well.
But something seemed to set those Martins free.
Summer thread unspools the weathered barn
and then re-sews the rafters overhead;
although what seemed like joy must be alarm
maybe not at me, at my Bagatelle instead.
Heart of hearts, I willingly mis-heard.
My fingers dreaming fast but dragged along
had struck a bargain and I paid in birds
imprisoned by a crisis, not by song,
for shame: they soothed the eighth-notes’ drunken lurch
Birds, old barn: Be my confessor’s church.
See the intro/roundup.