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Concerto
and all we have to see
are stars, which are a blinding black thrown
across white night, when music notes
are souls
built in treble
and bass upon a staff which the Lord spilt
out, and Gabriel recorded.
These notes,
black upon white,
are dizzy, turning my thoughts to liquid
because now there are no words . . . except
those which seep through doorways.
And He pokes, pushes tapping fingers,
forcing staccato, legato,
forte and piano in our lungs.
We suck in with ease.
And the keys crack under
one thousand years weight.
And the sheet music becomes yellow
around the edges, torn
and burnt, because for some reason
we twist upon the page and turn
this concerto to E minor,
and sharps and flats, and then
hands and blows
will drag upon the strings,
all fingers pressed down,
and the song will end.
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