Rapsodia

Hands  
on my arched back  
sliding along scratches  
on chords you know  
 
White  
pale fingers  
to embroider arabesques  
on my score  
 
I am  
as an instrument, an orchestra  
between blues rhapsodies'  
arpeggios and demisequavers  
 
I quiver  
harps, harpsichords  
in poliphonic instincts  
of a jazz crescendo  
 
freed  
from those very peaks  
of your body in mine  
like a saxophone solo