The Soul of the Old Machine


       Here 
       in the concert hall,
       in the silent piano,
       in the hands 
       of the old man
       moving from the wings

       resides the thing,
       like every other thing,
       that never quite transcends
       the vessel 
       of its own skin.

       But just as early lovers, 
       at it once again, 
       summon each other
       to the quick of their
       bare, almost permeable skin

       so too his fingers
       bring notes 
       from the keys,
       and the keys bring 
       music down his sleeves

       cataracts of sound really, 
       that move among us in our seats
       that make it possible to recall
       the sound, the scent,
       the taste, the touch of ...

       Inside our grey and balding skulls,
       with our eyes closing to the sound,
       once again we recall
       this is how it feels 
       to kiss, and to be loved.




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