Glenn Gould, I take in your humming;

I take in your trench coat and ratty gloves;

I take in your love of north,

your idiosyncrasies, your odd manners,

your syncopated syntax, your Arrowroot cookies.

Glenn Gould, when you play piano

the world disappears.

            And reappears

in the black and white of simpler times.

Lately, Glenn Gould, I have been draping my troubles

with you (before your troubles), the earlier version of you

before the world found its way to inflate your blood pressure,

to insidiously torque your shoulder, warp your brain waves.

By the end of my days, I am weary with the news of the world,

weary with the news of my loved ones,

weary with my the rag of my body.

Instead of listening to more news, I listen to you.

Have you heard the news? Glenn Gould thought music;

Glenn Gould played music; Glenn Gould lived music, dreamed music;

Glenn Gould rent the clock and burst inside;

Glenn Gould performed infinity inside the girdled heartbeat.

Lately, Glenn Gould, I've been using your genius as a shield,

the authority of your Goldberg Variations,

your Bach, your Beethoven, your Hayden,

your phalanges, your tiny, yet terribly precise hammers.

I use them to protect myself

from the rottenness of my weak mind.

Have you heard the news? Glenn Gould is safely completed.

He is pressed vinyl and an obit.

I stand in the circle of Glenn Gould's shadow, piano notes

            raining down upon me a battery of aqueous bullets,

an immutable fortress.