in dimly lit spaces, the piano
is a train whistling unevenly
across a sloping stage blowing

up, up, and up the crinkling
wings of beethoven
and bartók – the only two
choices left
within these numb
fingers when drowning
in an endless pit of freshly
polished apples. in dimly
lit spaces, the piano is a train
whistling is a wound bleeding
is a cast iron radiator tiptoeing
nearest the asylum of
a north-facing brick wall

with her rusty skirt grazing
at minor third intervals
across all that city snow
.
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