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Text of the Poem

Sometimes, in the middle of the lesson,
we exchanged places. She would gaze a moment at 
     her hands 
spread over the keys; then the small house with its 
its shut windows,

its photographs of her sons and the serious 
vanished as new shapes formed. Sound 
became music, and music a white 
scarp for the listener to climb

alone. I leaped rock over rock to the top
and found myself waiting, transformed,        
and still she played, her eyes luminous and willful, 
her pinned hair failing down—

forgetting me, the house, the neat green yard,
she fled in that lick of flame all tedious bonds;
supper, the duties of flesh and home,
the knife at the throat, the death in the metronome.