I stretch my span
for the low, low D, but
over-reach and hit a C.
The nocturne
bristles on its slender staves.
Clumsy hands grope to apologize—
they stutter and blunder
through intricate ornaments
and fumble in the chorale.
In my mind, it is so lovely.
I hear Chopin’s consoling swell
as the legato chords progress.
Oh curve of the hand,
I remember you well,
palm hollowed
so only the finger pads touch.
In my mind, there are
lovers dancing.
I keep my shoulders soft.
In my mind,
the moon appears.