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You Hated to
Practice 
After school you spread your music slowly
with the palm of one hand.
In the apartment below I listened
for your harp. I lay on the floor
arms chafed by the rug
studying the ceiling as C major
sang down the wall
and along the runnel of my spine.
I knew you shifted
pedals when you tipped
the soundboard into you like a lover
for "Leibierstrom" then
"Scherazade".
I felt light as a scale on steel and gut.
You would have been embarrassed
to see me wait every day: both of us hesitant
with adolescence, before
our loop began to fill with time
in the darkening room.
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