He sits there stick alert staring into space,

one quivering hand resting just above the keys,

the other pointing off ahead of him to follow,

leading the way to the notes he’s searching for.

The space to us between him and the classroom wall

seems empty, but he sees some something

teetering there on the tip of his conscious perception,

tiptoeing back and forth along the lip that separates

all this world

from everything floating in the dark waters of the unconscious.

It is a race between the music he is hearing

and the music he might hear yet, as we sit silently,

patiently awaiting that lightbulb moment of illumination

signaled by an electric snap of his fingers.

This would never go on through the entire session;

it is the matter of a short time before he catches it,

snatches out the next phrase of this musical moment for us

to hum after, these secret notes he’s fingered out for us to sing.

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