The Literary Review

In dimmed rooms a metronome 

measures each gray second 

of a boy’s gray hour. 

The measure counts the gray meters 

from the tinged blue bars

to the washed blue apron 

where she–mother? teacher?–roosts 

on a stool, back straight,

hands tucked tight between her thighs. 

No owl in moonless winter is as keen.

The boy’s meter measures 

the distance between the garden’s 

green gravity and her faceless moon.

He measures the pillar of pale blue 

curtain where it parts 

verdant zest from slated task; 

anchoring in opposition, 

the raw sienna shaft 

that unfolds becoming 

the subtly hued geometry of the head.

The black blade is the boy’s dread, 

while the piano’s flush heat stirs a gut 

hunger: a need to master,

that magnetizes the iron eye.

His meter is the space bound by 

blush rose plane and muted blue tablature. 

Black brushstrokes, unfurled in arabesque 

flow and grow, steal right to left; 

sly-eyed music rack to

balustrade and the wide window;

an air to lift a bright sail.

The strain, the candle notes, will not be restrained.

And here at bottom left 

a small nude bronze, 

in rich cocoa patina, 

listens in seated ease                                 

and patiently weights the 

measured metered space.