My Unpainted Canvas
A grand piano made of thin crystal
sits in a clearing in a pine forest.
Hoar frost covers the dark green
branches and every piano wire.
Freezing fog moves on a slow
breath of something unseen.
One of my eyes, brow pierced
by a twisted paperclip, is suspended
from a branch over the keyboard.
Out of mist, origami gulls
soar, wings made of Beethoven
scores. Like a percussionist
waiting to strike a chime or triangle,
I can only enter the melody
line with a counterpoint of tears,
stone deaf. One lone bird flies
into the raised lid of the piano
as if into a window it couldnt see,
lies stunned on the ground. My canon
of tears falls, freezes midair. I wait
for the birds faint heartbeat.