From These Foolish Things

A tinkling piano in the next apartment
makes its notes motifs of other lands,
like streams hinted at deep beyond the trees
and disparities between what was said and meant.
I think of how I heard its random notes before
and the broken past is placed into my hands,
for histories are notes in changing keys
and time is cliched out in grains of sand - 
its sirens wait upon each island shore,
where, shipwrecked, I will gather when I land
tree hulks and stream water, hidden before;
I plan boats and kindle fires for my fear,
brought on in the night by jungle screams,
I wake from distant and terrible dreams,
I could not go so far when you were here.

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