Nocturne

Honest to god tonight the idiot
savant plays nocturnes as I sit,    
my back to the window
in the rent corner of the flower bed
where the dog churns each morning over asters.

Crickets dangle from my hair,
grass clippings,    
white moonlight,    
a slew of it in the yard tonight,
uncalled-for but not a burden.

Something about those keys struck softly
sends me into a reverie       
& I picture the woman I’ll one day marry,
nothing striking about her
but baby fat and appetite.

How like a pine cone
she spreads the feast of her seed
among the ravenous flames.
How like the blind she touches every wall
& holds each brittle face in her tender hands.