a: cry-me-a-master Steinway was raised

up by a streetlight.

sharply concentrated as a protractor's

return starting point.

whose pressed encompassment shows

through, hours after lights out.

hotly bright on the Steinway's black hood

like a cow's patch.

as its shutaway keys rammed defiantly--

with reverberant bangs that bang

themselves.

aftermath's overintellectualization.

then someone that knew someone, that

knew Charlie Chaplin--skipped him into

frame.

where he stood his cane on the sidewalk

& pelted the Steinway with mothballs, for

good luck.

there it was, flatly suspended from the

streetlight--a musical ear's eclipse.

pantomimed sounds.