12

The hand at the piano
Is a wreckage never consumated,
All prodigal motion,
As light falls through branches,
Dappled song.
What is is now gone:
We are yet subject
To delay, are attuned
To the woman typist
Clattering—still—nightbound,
Who becomes mechanism,
Who dreams a music of machine
And while dreaming, moves.

The hand falls, and its sound
Is momentum.
The chord is struck, the word.