I recollect the magic
of spell check in 1981,
shaking now, in 2011,
a disc for a slot in my car,
and Grumiaux
may as well be ensconced
in the passenger seat,
and (despite the pathologies
of my porkish-green spirits)
lulling me to a pacified mood
built upon Bach’s perfection.
But technology doesn’t fix me;
it spoils my love.