Sunday, October 3, 2010

The pianos, who do not learn boundaries

Consider her manatee, amongst the silver slenders
She with fin in air, kin to all wild, all still-prone
holds her breath, lets you see

her insides--ribs, bolts, strings: the inviting math
of pleasedo slide your tips along slick maple,
come round those grand, for-touching curves.

Pull up chair, bring your hands.
Warm those tusks, those losing trees
carved for the girth she asks

of your fingers, of your fingers playing there
to make shake, make call-out-God,
make hold-the-note,

so you may both leave silence, sing
so you may both be mended.

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