there’s a piano player
on the highest floor
who lends a different genre
to the san francisco fog,the same piano player
whose lonely sound
deepens and blossoms
while everyone’s busy listening
to their own sad luxury.this is for the piano player
who carves the chore
out of all those stairs
so the burn in our legs
can finally yield to our heartbeats,the piano player
whose fingers we feel
but cannot see.
when i taste,
i am alone.
i am alone in this moment.
warm wind making love
to the candy green grass
and nearby, my open mouth:
a summer of oranges and chlorine
and the idea of someone else’s lips.a curious lightness of the heart —
but i come back to my tongue
and my tongue only.a million aftertastes
in the autumn that followed:
pomegranates bleeding in the kitchen
while the swimming pools
began to close
and those lips:
only a moment.
only an idea.with taste i was alone.
with Sound
came restlessness:
a fresh morning
crowded and sweet
by the noise of the sun
that chose us.
that chooses us, still.the sound of the bathroom sink
beating the alarm clock.
doors opening before eyes.
the sound of a strange tense,
of love in its past tense.love craving a letter to wear on its tail,
and borrowing Death’s first —
how it leaves your teeth differently,
how it will come to remind you of this gift.even the shy ones,
the sounds that happened while we were sleeping,
even those sounds from underwater,
where your voice returns to you
heavy and misshapen —even there
when i listen
i don’t have to be alone.
in the event of loving someone
i learned it best from the flowers
on the corner of 19th and Diamond:
Remember your space, too.
