JEFF REMEMBERS THESE

Musing on music from a previous age.

March 1st, 2004:

Rembrandt Exhibit at the Chicago Institute of Art

The art becomes an animated film;

those pupils waver print by flipbook print,

in every frame the same ungodly eyes

peeled back, like insects pinned down wing by wing

to yellowed cards, still fluttering, dead black.

His humor, sable-trimmed, makes patrons cringe

and thrusts a bleakness on the cramped white space;

grim coffee grounds against the bleached-out page.

Across the street a tuba farts the tune

"My Favorite Things" for pocket change. I hear

it on the balcony and notice: gold

and silver veins in marble railing—

the grey moon paling as it rises—instead.

Despite the cold, I focus on the stars.

Headed for the School of Music

I'm standing underneath the streetlamps,

the air miraculously gentle,

and even all this goddamn snow seems

right, brushing on my collarbone, mild

as if it were my own sleeping breath.

The bus is taking its sweet, sweet time …

I suck in that somehow muted air –

and just for once, for once I don't mind

the wait.

The research building's conference room, still

lit, begging me to stare in at them,

those late-night chalk-dust addicts.

One yawns and stretches,

forty years old

or twenty, maybe.

What vitamin deficiencies in

these red, red eyes, these berries glossed over

with ice?

And all the passing cars have red tail-

lights, glowing in the dark like monster eyes.

My hand goes to my throat, as I search

for that sensation of snow-breath against me,

a matron fingering her diamonds,

afraid they may be stolen.

The bus rolls up and sullies the snow.

I mount the steps like every night –

The bus takes off, and sends me lurching;

Lurching.