The Art of Music


We wrote a pas-de-deux
A ballad to fill the empty chambers
Of sheets of music fluttering
Down rough-sanded stairs
(bleeding oak rivering into marble)
My skin, an ending space
Of black tones in
One two, one two three
Uneven, unplayable keys
Dal Segno al Coda

But there was no harmonised
Conclusion
We were expressionless
An impression on blank pressed paper
And at the coda the strings snapped
—My skin, ending and red
Your fingerprints in blues
And pinks
Like flowers in oil prints
My thighs again unlocked
—And through the marble
My breasts, bright red

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