To The Pianist Bill Evans Poem by Bill Zavatsky

When I hear you
play 'My Foolish Heart'
I am clouded

remembering more than
Scott LaFaro's charred bass
as it rested

against a Yonkers wall
in its transit
from accidental fire

like a shadowy
grace note
exploding into

rhythms of Lou
insanely driving
'Man, we're late! '

his long curved bass
straining the car
interior, a canvas swan

my hand clutched,
fingered, refingered:
steel strings as

of the human neck
the vulnerable neck
the neck of music

squeezed by hands
the fragile box
of song, the breath

I crushed out of the music
before I killed
by accident

whatever in me
could sing
not touching the keyboard

of terrible parties
and snow
snow

falling as canvas and
wood and hair flamed
behind a windshield

I imagined being
trapped inside, still
see it in my heart

our terror magnified
note by note
purified each year

the gentle rise
and circle of
cinders in

February air
in their transit
from fire

into music,
into memory, a space
where heroin

does not slowly wave
its blazing arm,
like smoking ivory

teeth and fingers
scorched by the
proximity

of cigarettes laid
on anonymous piano
lips that crush

our function, in-
transigent wire,
inanimate wood

of another century
we must save by song!
for which we are paid!

continuing to be
used, insisting
our hands present

themselves
and keep
on taking our hands