Man at the Clavichord

There is an antique Sunday afternoon in his fingers.
He touches the delicate things of a dead era,
His notes become a wall, then a cathedral,
They drop like silver water into a bucket.

Even a man’s coarse thoughts tinkle like stars here,
In Mozart’s parlor where tiny shoes and tiny gloves
Wait to welcome us; the man at the clavichord is
Like the first singing peacock we have ever seen.