of his piano. It rings in song. Candles
and sonatas and still wet varnish stirring,
swirling in a cocktail of air. He, as

free-form as my fingertips. Wrapped around
the sound they finger-paint, they dance
like nymphs through

fields of black and ivory keys. A tender
voice set free from strings of wire, and trills
that feel like tips of tongues. He is music

playing in a stillborn world.
Building, falling, like hesitant rain.
Shifting, like a cat in its

elastic skin along the caulked and puttied
windowsill, to unexpected
dissonance and constant aching for resolve.

24 oct 2000
M Madison
In Jaimy's World