by Megan Busbice

on improvisation

when loosed I create such fluidly gorgeous
nonsense. the piano keys warp into flair, motif
and withdrawal, resolution waning and prolonged.
these intuitive meanderings mean little, I know—a studied
ear would beg for more structure, more innovation, not
my mashed seconds and sevenths and black keys
precipiced at the end of a phrase. I feel nearly guilty
when someone tells me that this is magic, looking away in an
empty concert hall or a slow coffee shop on a Tuesday
afternoon. this is, like most of the best things about me, an
illusion. drifting, imprecise grace, and the watchful silence
of all who dare to listen. predictable beautiful clashing chords,
falling into domed and echoed lines. she says, god I nearly cried. I say,
it’s just theme and variation. what an embarrassment, that this is
the gentlest and best thing that I can give someone: a melody tossed
to the breeze, settling slowly as samara seed, drifting
toward eventuality humming of bittersweet and time.