in dimly lit spaces, the piano
is a train whistling unevenly
across a sloping stage blowing

up, up, and up the crinkling
wings of beethoven
and bartók – the only two
choices left
within these numb
fingers when drowning
in an endless pit of freshly
polished apples. in dimly
lit spaces, the piano is a train
whistling is a wound bleeding
is a cast iron radiator tiptoeing
nearest the asylum of
a north-facing brick wall

with her rusty skirt grazing
at minor third intervals
across all that city snow
.
20080228:1538

the closer to the deceased
the more death becomes
an inconvenience – that is,
which train am i taking?
does my suit still fit? when
is the funeral? where
are my black dress shoes? who
hasn’t been notified?

the more death becomes
an inconvenience, the less we have
to open our eyes widely
towards the emptiness that is still
a faint lingering of our
beloved who can no longer
share in these softest of
laments – who, what, when
and where – but lie
down with us each time
we press our heads against why
and catch our tongues
perpetually blistering on how
.
20080228:1653
y