The clear melody carries the clavier voice;
the sun-embroidered street steeping in the
lost strands of noise:

the flat staccato, senseful and effortless, as I
want it all to be, the gaudy masks of sunrise
dressing the sun-sunk steeples where

the blackbirds too say "adieu" in the stoic
appoggiatura of their black essence, without
apology or analogy, and

the thought carries just as clearly through
my waking body: where in the soft-spoken
music of this city

is your touch, the something dreadful
and lovely, caught as a melancholy interval
between careful fingers on the sun-dried

ivory of the parlor grand, the primrose
draft of October staining the sable
finish of the loose keys, and where

is the lost amber gaze that too might
dress the faded boughs of my body
with the absinthe-tinged sincerity,

and the blackbirds too fly à Dieu,
senseful and effortless as painted shadows,
until the sunrise is a nude afternoon

and I'm afraid of its honest ruddy tone,
as when you pull me from the soft-spoken
sleep, and the lost strands

of your sun-washed hair carry in the simple air,
and the warm ivory of your eyes
presses against

the black morendo of my shadow,
dissolving almost into sound, a waltz
that never speaks adieu, but pulls

me into the bright soft-spokenness of
midnight, and pulls me honestly
à Dieu.