Monday, December 9, 2013

The Clairvoyant

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 come
too 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 throat
hosting  other voices – while muting
           her own.

Days ago,
she found the remnants
of 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 piece
she  learned to play,  drowning out
                  a chorus of strangers.


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