bug wall fever – sweat gland push of passion – wind weather eddying curtains like rivers – a statue of your self dreaming – a vestibule child praying – a hall – a door – music and more notes than any lover might ever hear…
It was soft and quiet – a mild touch here and there – a little like…a little late – his glass overturned on a carpet and red – wet fluid questions issuing from his lips and a woman answering “I am ghost magic and fear kiss me…”
spired bedposts – drapes of velvet – blown horns of demi-gods – soft sounds again and then scraping – a tuner stretching strings until perfection – Rachmaninoff dead on a sofa, his mother calling from a hereafter, “rise Sergei and play…”
You at a keyboard playing to a world not quite awake to listen, and pouring glass after glass for them and toasting – “To you my imaginary friends, my intimate companions, sit, and I will feed you and wine you, and cry to, and for and because of you, and I will tremble mightily so that you will not have too; I will be your friend forever, and sew prayer clothes for your children, and this I will do for you just to be doing for you, and nothing more – or maybe in exchange for one small favor – I will die for you if you will die for me – isn’t that a small thing to give… your life for the immortality of a poem…?”
fine fingernails bitten – milk white walls graying – hesitations and a word or two about the mistaken – an all at once risk abandoned – explanations and meanings hiding in a closet – a public personification and rumors about tiny nothings…
hurting and breaking and pounding – mirth looking for dust laughing under a carpet – memory in a headache – dinner growing colder and then cold – my my and sigh sigh; will the world go round and can we live at least one more day…?
to mime or maim – rise or fall – talk all night or believe like believers – to sunrise win or nightfall fail at this or that and because and could be – Rachmaninoff is dead from frustration; a 12″ finger spread and still no one to hold…