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.
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