a tie, as if from a blue silk thread, weaving the heard
the left behind. How do you play Beethoven, Havana style
Timba first, a flash of a dancer's rhythm in the steps
you stop counting, falling as it may,
the effect of the notes dropping in an empty studio
but you are one blessed with a full heart and an explainable desire
for listening to the noise of the city
as it exhales at night, Havana, hub of the imagination
this is it, then, how adventure gets written
with a trumpet, with a soft beating of a drum
no one can hear but an experienced night cat: a dancer
tiptoeing on a melody, maybe this is all we are doing
perhaps this is exactly what Beethoven would have sounded like
having not been born with a pierced eardrum
with stripped skin and less aptitude to genius
maybe a little drumming called the gods once
will awake with the trumpets, a jazz at the edge of the night
like swords clashing, like bodies fusing together
in response to the late blessing of music.
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