Friend A Will Be My Accompanist

Leaves are seized by wind,
mark of autumn’s denouement.
Wonder if my words will reach

when they only seem to float away,
hoping their intricate weight translates.
Daffodils emerge in the margins.

Your signature runs with the rain,
trailing ink like a black-sea firework.
I am so close to speaking again.

Cataracts stick to sheet music,
curtain falls — thick, stagnant chord.
Symphony of grim telegnostic

pleads: never end.
In the empty space, words corral
into place like cold black keys,

flooding the breach — 
fingers pluck stems
reaching down into graves.

This is what flies
from my piano,
so many fugitive shades.