By Madison
Date: 25 October 2000

Not of Words

The sanded floorboards lie 
stripped like empty bleachers 
side by side, beneath the blonde veneer 

of his piano.  It rings in song.  Candles 
and sonatas and still wet varnish stirring, 
swirling in a cocktail of air.  He, as 

free-form as my fingertips.  Wrapped around 
the sound they finger-paint, they dance
like nymphs through 

fields of black and ivory keys.  A tender
voice set free from wire strings, and trills 
that feel like tips of tongues.  He is music 

playing in a stillborn world.
Building, falling, like hesitant rain.  
Shifting, like a cat in its 

elastic skin along the caulked and 
puttied windowsill, to unexpected
dissonance and constant aching for resolve.


M Madison
24 oct 2000
In Jaimy's World