to keep silence on the keys.
It's not there for kitty, but for the Destroyer,
the Hell-spawned vaccuum-souled Imp
who leans in the doorway and pipes up
that the adagio is "nice."
Follow me to my playing place,
and I will knock you down the stairs with a spiked club.
I do this for the sake of my instrument,
blind and trusting in every way that I am not.
If we have just made love,
our breath as close and sweet as roosting doves,
do not think that now you may ask me to "play something."
The window is glass--you will fall two floors with the shards.
I have preserved this spare garret
through hundred-year storms and momentary bullshit
using every avenue of preservation a girl can summon.
Now, in even solitude, I free the fallboard,
set fingertips to white strikers,
and look to kitty, in his terrible authority.
As before? I ask.
His eyes are unblinking,
and His instrument fills like a ewer in Canaan.
for Sunday Muse #97.