DE. Dec. 2003

The harsh sounds of this country
Feather in my waiting throat, almost
Sounding. The stillness of the piano
Is like a breath caught, a clock's
Weight dropping, and I am sliced
In my reflection on the ivory keys.
I believe the spotlights blur my vision
And I mark another why
To punctuate a question, almost
Asking. My question: I expect a no
To play back, but something locks
Your quick hate away. Enticed
By the generous music; a cease,
The piano silent; your precsion.