We bring our hands together
in applause, that absurd noise,
when we want to be silent. We might as well
be banging pots and pans,
it is that jarring, a violation
of the music we’ve listened to
without moving, almost holding our breath.
The pianist in his blindingly
white summer jacket bows and disappears and returns
and bows again. We keep up 
the clatter, so cacophonous
that it should signal revenge 
instead of the gratitude we feel
for the two hours we’ve spent 
out of our bodies and away
from our guardian selves
in the nowhere where the enchanted live.