I found myself
a many-roofed building in moonlight.
me as simply as moths might.
Feelings traversed me as fish.
I heard myself thinking,
It isn't the piano, it isn't the ears.
Then heard, too soon, the ordinary furnace,
the usual footsteps above me.
Washed my face again with hot water,
as I did when I was a child.
Originally published in The Beauty (Knopf, 2015); all rights reserved. Copyright © by Jane Hirshfield. Used by permission of the author, all rights reserved.