Return to Sibiu
After a year of absence
I find my house strewn with feathers.
From the paintings, what first disappeared
was the sea.
Only a fish’s gasping mouth remained alive,
Moon rays curled obediently
in my coffee cup
and an invisible bird measured invisible time
inside a clock where she’d built her nest.
“Georg,” she whispered.
“Philipp,” the echo sang back.
“Telemann,” I say aloud
while the record is spinning
and the violin strings
accompany your body
a world away.
Like an unseen orchestra:
Presto, say your fingers
Corsicana, answer my fingers
Allegrezza, say your eyes
Scherzo, answer my eyes
Gigue, say your patent-leather shoes
Polacca, answers my white dress
Menuet, answer our bodies, dancing in a ring
on the perfect Street of the Bards . . .