Piano

Days of science. Measured
Moments of calculating.
Of questions and question marks.
Marking.

Days full of clocking,
People ticking and tocking,
Like the metronome of-

These days, just
Days of meaningless meaning.
I mean that.

Days with reason.
To explain weather patterns,
And pattern-less weather.

Days of dialogue.
That’s catalogued.
Buried, dug up, and
Questioned further.

These days are frantic, frenzied.
Furnished so,
So we can be scientists.



Oh, but nights. Nights.
Of cold notes
Soaking still air with
Strokes of heat.

Nights of fingers. Detaching.
Trickling top the milky whites,
Just ten digits dancing.

Have you felt
A C minor triad cutting
The cords still
Connecting you to oxygen.

On these nights,
Chords cut cords.
I mean that.

It seems I’m
Making, breaking strides with these keys.
Or at least silence.

These nights are full, filling,
Flowing so,
So that I can be human.