Member Rara Avis
I rest my hand against the pane
and walk the street with tapered stride,
never moving to the crosspiece.
Leaning up across the piano.
The subtle sounds of water washing
from another room. The curtains
distill light to silence,
hanging there and waiting there.
When the phone rings,
I will start.
The pane will be forgotten.
Hopskotch people without stones
moving in and out of view.
I would throw them words of chalk
if I cared -- if they cared.
But neither of us know the other,
and the pane is cold with morning.
Presently, the keyboard waits,
long dark rows of bright, clean lights
hanging upside down, just wanting
to be pressed against the wood.
When I'm through, the last will ring
and bell out beautifully and spare.
Sparse as figures dancing naked,
uncoiling Sunday in wet drops.