The only difference
between the cliffs
and her stiff-skirted figure
is motion.
both are slate- blue
layered and distinct. Underscored
with a crinoline, she keeps her guard
and endures the wind’s push
toward the water.
A taffeta bell
warning others not to cometoo close -- or land on the same beach
that measures her shadow
with long strips of sodden grass.
She grieves and would prefer
to have been carved out of stone, a witness to time
not a live totem
that spirits and angels impart
with their insight. Her pale throathosting other voices – while muting
her own.
Days ago,
she found the remnantsof a piano washed ashore –
some of its wooden keys
laid out like rib bones. The breath
of Debussy emanating
from the ruin. Nuages,
ces Nuages --clouds, those clouds.
She wants to be sucked back
into his being, into the first pieceshe learned to play, drowning out
a chorus of strangers.
No comments:
Post a Comment