At Symphony Hall
Don’t be deceived by those of us who sit
as still as stone. You’ve seen us tamely knit
our brows and fingers, but the cells inside
are madly tangled, and our dignified
façades are porous, ready to collect
the airborne gifts that gestures might deflect.
To draw and soak up every note, we seek
to be unmoving targets—open, meek —
allowing sound to breach skin easily
and then infect the blood with ecstasy.
We listen with the patience of the lame:
unmoving and unmoved are not the same.