181. Flitting away a frozen mind forging itself, —Uncover all but the darkest grass.— Deliver it pure as piano keys gliding below hands. (Some slow but quiet hole with tables pressed in liquor bottles, Faint heartiness of an all-burned hearth and crackling logs; no soot. Low, methodic conversation; block, exact conversants. The talk of the townsfolk. Their trials leaving trails behind them in the snow Encrusting four panes of a regressive, square window, A translucent Achilles’ heel to the shield Staying a blizzard from decapitating their fingers with frost and Deafening in chattering amplification transfigured mouths Now only hot and wet with drink and must: a bear’s cave. The coldest winter on record and yet still that piano, Bringing what’s to come languidly down the stairs, Each stride sedate and intent as the stare shining The ties of choice and change from your marionette to existence descending.) “This piano,” howls the cold, “This musical instrument drives deeper drifts than the atmosphere I slave to weather.” And still, the notes etch. The bar played. Sound amidst icy silence.
Posted on: Wed, 12 Nov 2014 16:30:56 +0000
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