he didn’t want any words that were less bright, less clarified, than these steps along the paving stones of a city just waking up. Some wordless music, please. There was a case for something rich and slow and sonorous, to match the purple shadows under the Union Avenue elevated, where the rust spots on the girders glowed like gold coins. His inner Dolphus raised a clarinet. But no, not right. Today he needed the tinkle of pure form. He needed Joplin’s walk into joy. Meditative but not slow; the sound of the world in deft order, flowing as if the left hand and right hand only had to shake the
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