Fleshy hands lariat the gentile tones,
Fingerprint loops lasso the ivory keys.
He spider-walks up a chromatic ladder,
He knows the way. Every natural C gone sharp
And copper-wound string blunted by moisture.

A thundering voice and jet-black hair
Marbled gray; lively sapphire eyes.
(He wore no glasses, had no cane.)
Index points to ear, " you have to listen " . . .
He tells a music room full of raw minds;
With eyes straining to pick up what he means
About sound, harmony and life. " The . . .
Stings got to sound their best to play together
."
That's why I'm here
" . . .

An unusual music class. He re-tuned
Our old upright with a glassy socket wrench,
Counting the spindles of the harp like ribs
In a mahogany body. He with
Sure dexterity healed pained sound.
He plucked the piano's heart beat for us
To see with our ears . . .

Our strident bodies slowed down to listen,
The room fleshed out by sonorous whispers.
For that moment, I forgot he was blind.