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Blue windows, blue rooftops

and the blue light of the rain,

these contiguous phrases of Rachmaninoff

poring into my enormous ears

and the tears falling into my blindness

for without him I do not play,

especially in the afternoon

on the day of his birthday. Good

fartune, you would have been

my teacher and I your only pupil

and I would always play again.

Secrets of Liszt and Scriabin

whispered to me over the keyboard

on unsunny afternoons! and growing

still in my stormy heart.

Only my eyes would be blues as I played

and you rapped my knuckles,

dearest father of all the Russias,

placing my fingers

tenderly upon your cold, tired eyes.