Piano is your dear chink. Softest-centre,
it is where pleasure and piety kindle high findings,
a tidy, massive world that is all body/no body.
I am mostly not there when it happens.
Fellow percussionist, I blindly play the ruby
coalescence, thumb my rough drum’s skin until
something molto dolce flows. I like the flush
that blooms during your brainwork.
I like your somnambulist page-turns
and that, when full throttle, you issue
a delicious forcefield which will not be breached.
I like too the meaty fidget that lurks always
in your fingers. We do not talk about mine
and their magnet work, the hot little nag
that is all attraction, pleading nail to skull
and skull to nail as it tracks its sickly axis.
Once, I knew my way around a keyboard.
Now, you know your way across my moon-head
and its giocoso sea of tranquility. These hands
have landed where they need to be.