Mozart’s Concerto for Glass Harmonica

There you are, at the gate of the memory palace

underneath the rusted teeth of the portcullis,

your hand raised in a puzzling gesture—

is it farewell, come here, get back, no blame,

or are you just trying to hitch a ride? But I’ve seen

that gesture when you sleep, as if you were saying

to someone, on the one hand . . . on the other hand.

Here is a memory to store in the palace—

You and I at the circus. The arena is dark

except for one blue spotlight. In it, a clown

stands before a table. On the table an array,

crystal wine glasses filled with different levels

of water. He’s dressed in white with a conical hat,

tear marks on one cheek. With a wet finger,

he plays music that was once forbidden

because it made musicians lose their minds.

There is a blank look in his eyes and he performs

perfectly, as if he were a mechanical clown.

Now look up, the lady on the trapeze

is dropping large blue crepe-paper flowers.

Maybe the palace is the size of a dollhouse

and my eye at the window is the eye of a giant.

Maybe the palace is in my chest and my heart

is beating too loud inside. I remember

when I woke but was still asleep and saw

my chest rising and falling on its own

and then I accidentally rolled out of my body

and there were two of me lying side by side.

In an alcove shaped like a scallop shell I’ve placed

a list of the way lovers have said goodbye.

Developer fluid heated up, passed off

as consommé, is a standout. As is GOODBYE

written in shaving cream on the dusty windows

of a row of abandoned cars in Baja. Just as I begin

to suspect what is wrong with this picture

I notice how lightly you step over the grillwork

of the oubliette, that terrible lace under which

men are forgotten. You raise your hand again

and now I understand that gesture—

it’s how you erase the distant mountains,

the palace, the sky, everything.

Source: The Persistence of Objects (BOA Editions Ltd., 2006)