for James and Marilyn Biery
Off to the side to get a better view,
I lean in, thinking, Here’s a metaphor
for married love: intimate, with a twist.
Cozily on one bench and from one score,
they disentangle music from the air
by not quite touching. Arms and legs thread through
the seinework of the game; the verb to play
has nuances I hadn’t seen before.
If once in a while they need the mild assist
of less-than-playful terms—move left foot over
scribbled in pencil at the crucial measure—
still, through a long, embroidered stretch of Widor
the rose window keeps tumbling gold and blue
over their almost-brushings at the wrist.