after the horn goes silent – 
applause that crushes the way the singer comes back 
into the song – something undeniably sad 
about those clapping hands, historical, pressed into the grooves 
of Body & Soul
as permanent as the singer’s voice 
or the bruised trumpet, coaxing something 
from her – some ache she didn’t know 
was hers – and she was 
answering… before the sad 
clapping cut her off – something 
almost mindless about that clapping, 
obligatory, as if  
paying the cover charge, the bar tab, 
not at the center of things 
but trying to grease the wheel,
etch the groove,
so it’ll spin out another day’s
blandishments before time
goes dark… But she knows  
time as well as God does, knows  
it because she’s human, knows
how to measure it – how to 
parse it and hold it 
and parcel it out, and God's 
demoted to the swish  
of the drummer's brushes 
against skins. God’s no longer
even a slurred order    
for another round
of effervescence, or something 
fiery, light on the water.
No, he’s just a brace 
in the song's bridge, 
where the horn comes in
and bends the tune almost
to breaking, then doesn’t,
leaving it for the singer to do –
and those sad hands clap right through
it, as if they didn’t know
it was a bridge to the far
side of what makes
feeling felt, as if
they hadn’t heard the call
and response – or as God
might say, the annunciation
and ascension – and really,
for most of them, it does
passeth understanding,
doesn’t it? And isn’t that
exactly the point?
They're glad there's a blessed 
thing in this world  
that says it for them,
that plumbs time for them, 
that plucks up a millionth of the mystery, 
rolls it around the bones, the throat, 
and eases it out, into the world –
to which the name Body & Soul
has been given. And even if
they can't quite name it, 
maybe that's enough.