You believe you’re playing

Bach’s chaconne,

its contrapuntal shape

as vivid in your mind

as a squeeze of citrus

on the tongue.

Yet you keep fingering

the same four measures:

Twinkle, twinkle little star,

How I wonder what you are.

Chin, shoulders, wrists burn

from endless rehearsal

of that rudimentary drill,

and with each round,

the arpeggio intervals

slip a microtone flatter

until sunny D major

modulates to whiny C minor.

The repetition frays windings,

exposes taut, thinning neurons

that won’t vibrate in sympathy

but whistle and squawk until

with one last down-bow burst

G

D

A

E

snap!