I tell you,
The French Suites through Glenn Gould
on his Steinway CD 318
recorded 1971 – 72
are my main source of anonymous love
and tickling, soaring meditation,
on par with Donovan Leitch's 1965 Fairytale album,
with instalments like Jersey Thursday
and Summer Day Reflection Song

Gould's French Suites are a band of tin soldiers,
elves and thin angels
circling my bed in light dances,
sometimes rising up above like songbirds,
flapping their wings in the sun;
the water in the pond rippling,
turning my immediate existence into a sanctuary,

and I pick up Gertrude Stein's thin booklet
on Pablo Picasso
and open a new day,
as Bach is always brand new;
as Picasso is always brand new;
as Gould is Satan lost in God's ecstasy,
relieving me of myself,
in all holiness