CLARA HASKILL Poem by Vasco Graça Moura

and there's always a human story that speaks to who we are,
a narrative that prolongs the acoustics of our inner suns, destinies
as the afternoon starts waning, for instance, at

age sixty-five clara haskill fell on the platform
at the station in brussels and eventually died
of complications from the fall. but she'd already had

problems with her eyes and her back. she'd already
been forced to flee from germany. these notes
are on the jacket of the record where she, mozart's

intermediary, plays the d-minor concerto, in an aura
of grave densities. you're lying on the couch
reading a book when i tell you this. i don't know

if you're paying attention or just smiling as the music demands
and haskill would like. music is always autobiographical
for the listener, an accelerated anguish exacerbating what

we dared to know. and an intimate pact with light
and the ineffable part of experience make
for the sublime in these marginalia of life.