Expansive but un-tuned, the musicianlingered with his instru-ment, talking at thegala. His lips are un-controlled: he speakspassionately, a reedyvoice moving hishearers, and he talksfrom one to the next,as, when playing, hemoves from a lowerto a higher note. He excused himselfif the table behindhim, with its whitelinen, attracts lessof the room than hisspeech; if the cater-ing and the fish,so carefully braised,stand off at a corner,with the woodenchairs. Yes, with hiswhite undershirt,and black finishings,his tuxedo was agamut, the pacingof hooves, of horses,from the beginningto the end of aspectrum, as whena day turns into anight, with the timeunnoticed. Hisdaughter, Melody,will see them soon.That his mouthmoved and his lipsO'd was hisconviction inthe style of music,unbeknownst to him."Poetry is beauty,and beauty is style." Photo by Ablimit Ablet on Unsplash