Opal’s Song

Opal’s Song


In rifling thoughts and scores I sit
A broken rhythm of a day
dreaming of tides in my cupped ears
hardly able to hear his playing these days
I sip tea while he has time for nothing else
He sighs and rests a finger on each of the piano’s eyelids
feeling the weight of his wrists drop below the keys
His hands pull sounds from every string to every cell in a
rhapsody which shakes places he has never been to before
Rasping fragments in a language of his own invention
Today he plays with only 3 hands, an ominous dance
He is dying in his ears first as
I am his witness and audience
the music is his coming and
when there is silence?


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