Don't skim those keys
like your fingers are feathers,
Press down the loud pedal,
Lean in earnestly and
Do beat those hammers;
Break the glass of your voice,
Croon wooden lines from an
old folk ditty if you must,
but jump on it!
That fin I gave you
nestles in your pocket
and all I hear are a piano tuner's
pick...pick...pick...
Lift this shroud of night,
Be God,
Open the heavens--
your fingers bouncing aflame with
the apocalypse of daylight!