I
standing in the kitchen
holding the coffee grinder
next to his temple
listening to the beans
giving up their sacred ground
hears the secret sound
II
another front row
in the church of Rossini
the face of a child
III
staring at the page
(white bib in the typewriter)
hears a dog yawning
puts down his coffee
flexes his steam-driven mind
and hammers the keys