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.



Why don’t you and I string
these pearls scattered

on the dressers and floors
of our lemon-peach house?

White, pure, eloquent:
they were nurtured in oysters

deep under water for years
and now they roll and flounce

about the spaces, waiting for
the first needle prick,

the gentle tug, the lissom slither,
to pearl them together

and hang around our necks
like dialogue

we wished to wear forever.