But I am still here. My fingers
have not left me. The window's
green lid snaps wide open and the sunlight
is wounded. This is why it limps away
on crutches of shadow. Blocks
of granite lean and right themselves
at the last minute.
My fingers. My marchers.
Slipping on their own sweat and then
regaining their balance. Suffering
in stiff boots.
Green rinds litter the streets.
The centuries have cracked. Flakes
of varnish chip from your black mahogany.
Dust sifts through a trap of
light on the floor. Footsteps
have slowed to listen at the door.
I have done what you wanted.
Until the next time.
I am playing softly now.
I am going.
My room shakes.
Anne Hussey
