BWV 988

Bach as a spell against the new day and rain.
Goldberg Variations stream down the open window.
Notes to a jazz mind, improvised in scribbles

as if God finally unlocked his Wunderkabinett
crammed with miscalculations and tiny vastnesses
for a last shot at something great.
The wigged composer thanked him for the commission

so that Glen Gould could hide away
with late summer storms, tape decks and Thorazine,
his seat always exactly 14 inches off the floor,
his fingerless gloves on naked keys.

The needle skips where it always skips.
Next door’s baby starts to scream as footsteps recede
down the corridor and the unorchestrated
lifts riff in harmony.

Someone’s frying bacon like they’ve found the answer.

First published in Under the Radar Magazine 31, Nine Arches Press