A girl on the stairs listens to her father Beat up her mother. Doors bang. She comes down in her nightgown. The piano stands there in the dark Like a boy with an orchid. She plays what she can Then she turns the lamp on. Her mother's music is spread out On the floor like brochures. She hears her father Running through the leaves. The last black key She presses stays down, makes no sound Someone putting their tongue where their tooth had been.
The hand was having a hard time holding the pen.
A superficial cut.
A long clear silent night.
A book held open by a dolostone.
The occupant selects a sentence, No one knows
how small the smallest life is.
If there’s a call, it will not be answered.
A bath; the burning of sweetgrass soothe the limbs.
As a memory stings the brain.
The furniture serviceable but weird, on the verge
The vein of light under the door is a comfort
To the occupant.
The air inhales the passerine lines of a single singer.
A motorcycle saws through the song and goes.
An appliance purrs at intervals.
The pen was bought in Gubbio near
the thin band marking the great dying of dinosaurs.
The pen, a gift.
It has been designed to coax a scream
of beauty from a fissure
Iridium in the nib.