I swore I would never do this, but here I am trying to start a blog using my little day poems. Here’s one from a couple of months ago.
whether we admit it
or not. The piano
is a percussive instrument
I could not play
very well—the harpsichord
is plucked like a child
from a secure sleep
into male and female
shouts going to different lengths
and depths to be
heard. No one was listening. A rock
glass smashing against a wooden step,
a china vase shattering
against a windshield, impervious
to the drama. When all motion stops,
and the permanent split is identified
and legally documented,
vibrations carry on elsewhere.
I only played the baroque instrument
once—I was that child.