Her Petite—Delicate Art

 

Touché—but till then
not more than a little,
something one might confuse
for nothing at all—

had one not heard,
or forgotten, a few
of the opening bars
sounding through the air,

tacitly tuning
what ought to be
with what merely is—

until, all at once,

a hand, and then
a finger, closed in;

and by that one stroke,
which any good musician
or painter would admire,

from nowhere—though where
had it hidden all this time?—

she made him remember,
ever so lightly,

as if she had been winged,

her fine and discreet measure,
that delicate art
of anti-gravity.