What are you there:
Arm branched off the bed, cupped fingers,
piano fragments in the air
What are you?
The feather-roses, the flagons made of
Dust, they know what you miss most
More than memory—
—it is lost Potential, it fills those rays of light,
Lost, like needles hitting your floor,
Forked road whispers
They are there
are missed chances
steps in some forgotten stairway
The sheets echo of them,
The pillows drip of them
Dusk-strands of mighthavebeens
You are spidercaught in them
You lay, luxurious, aching,
haunted by the beautiful, beautiful sound,
Of half-dawn filled noise
Of so many pins falling to the ground,
minor notes
missing cadence
