touched by your goodness, i am like
that grand piano we found one night on willoughby
that someone had smashed and somehow
heaved through an open window.
and you might think by this i mean i’m broken
or abandoned, or unloved. truth is, i don’t
know exactly what i am, any more
than the wreckage in the alley knows
it’s a piano, filling with trash and yellow leaves.
maybe i’m all that’s left of what i was.
but touching me, i know, you are the good
breeze blowing across its rusted strings.
what would you call that feeling when the wood,
even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?