The piano sings
as
you tap the keys
in
a lonely lighthouse
of hurting repetition,
because even as you sit there,
you are letting go,
and the piano
is rolling away from you,
its voice stopping
and plunging darkly
only to stop
and look back at its
footprints in the sand,
the ones
against the edge of salt water
and the breakers
coming in
to break things.

The sun
is a pink moan,
the dusk
is
a blue happiness,
the stars
are white
memories
of the earlier loving hug of fog
and you have painted the day
at your piano.