What about the sound of fingernails clicking on ivory keys?
Does it distract you from the ringing from the pinging from the singing of
your mind like the rolling rain

Shining a flashlight under the hood of the casket
To see the broken glass intersection
Where I met myself
In the reflection of the car window
Through slicing drops

Those yellow sheets still piled
Under the piano bench
Music that can’t be played because the thing built
Out of wood, and ivory and hammers
Is silent now.