You have the hands of a pianist,
she said.
I disagreed.
For mine are fingers
that articulate not fluid
nocturnes,
or comatose melodies,
but speak instead
with intermittent,
desultory sighssss,
wrought upon leaden keys
in the dead of night.
Words hook like a noose around my soul,
hungering to take it
somewhere forsaken,
somewhere unknown.
For every poem I write
starts
and ends
in a different place.
This one for instance,
was supposed to be about
Cats.