I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.

Written On Stone

When you close your eyes
and lay your head
upon your pillow for the night,
it is my voice, the murmurings
of which takes you places.
When you awake mornings and
the sun is not come out yet and
the birds are uncertain
of night over day,
it is my face you see gazing at you
from your several spaces.
You find me in your yellow flowers and
the turf at the roadsides,
you touch my breath upon your skin,
you breathe my musk and wild rose
in the breezes that travel from
north down to the riverfront.
And that evening when
you traipsed the path where
church spires rise to the moon
and where the bones of those
you know or don’t
lay awake and listening,
you saw me trail your footsteps
for a quarter mile around
to watch you slumped over
a slab of brown alabaster
and cry.