O Tired Love it’s easy to see the wire that connects

melody and mystery is short  How inspiration quickens
the felted hammers in the formless void
Let’s rename the beginning of recorded history
The First Important Piano Poem a dirge of grace
pulled from between firmament and kelp  And I am a candle

on the glossy lid  my eyes closed while all your present houseguests
chatter in the hallway and throw bread at the lake
O look at you being virtuosic at everything you do
You’ve got my wax  my wick  thumbs heavy as bricks
and a tuning fork threading poise across the acres between your ears
Teeth like a row of grain silos  and a thick heel thudding

with the steadiness of a metronome Your suspenders
are wide as closet doors!  At night  when daylight is
tucked up to its chin in exhaustion and quilts  strike
a match on your zipper   Take it to my head   even though I am only
worth my weight in wind  My best efforts unreasonably dim
The slow foxtrot you push out

soft    and assembled by ear    as the bench creaks at its corners
lending weight to the song  O what is the chord that makes
creation go backwards  like beautiful scarves
sucked into a trunk  Is there another that causes the lid to close
And when will you know to play them  I’m only wondering
Are you able to dream your rehearsals in reverse