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Sport 25: Spring 2000


page 48


You the orthodontist
with strong fingers at
my resilient mouth
tap one white tooth with
a fingernail. The
sound is denture-like;
the real sound doesn't
happen here.

Sharps and flats
will always be the notes
you had forgotten you knew,
harder to reach and read,
black as old fillings.

There are holes in the harmonies
because a few of the chorus are mute,
you push open their mouths but nothing happens,
are reminded again of those invisible strings.

The metronome is
there to help with tempo,
whatever you do don't
set it to your own heart beat.

Your touch is everything to me,
the vibrations go on and on…
Who is holding that pedal down?