Round, choral, sonata. The notes
are bricks to build yourself a home:
the sarabande, your heartbeat, your breath.
The pavane fits like skin, the requiem
forms a harmonious carpet. No house
is sturdier, no structure of time more solid.
She too had papered her walls
with music. On the street, surrounded
by uproar and stench, was she cradled by song?
Pergolesi and Prince. Cushioned
by cobblestones she sank,
safe and warm, in her cage of sound.