Sometimes the music is locked in the earth's body, matter- of-fact, transforming itself.
So our work could seem useless, even tautological, as if music were weather, as if there were never practice, finger-oil on the keys, dust in the curtains like the silence that hates music, parents to disappoint, small frauds the teacher is paid to endure but endures for her own reasons.
But the garbled, ill- believed hymns rise from the piano on payments.
And any God I care for rakes them in and loves them, though I don't want to hear the jokes God makes to love them unless I be one of those jokes.
