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.