The Piano

I lifted the hinged lid
of our upright piano
to find the centrifugal
of her studied song,

to listen to the hammers’
strikes, soft and loud,
in her found piece
on well-rehearsed keys:

but all I could sense
was what I breathed in,
back with the same smell
of my grandfather’s home,

sat again in his foreign fug
of deep wax and old wood,
back to a lost performance
sent by the piano’s opened belly:

There I slipped the cloy of voices,
to explore his own orchestra
of orderly outdoor plantings,
to escape the staining odours.


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