The Dead Pianist, My Father.

The Dead Pianist, My Father

   So far being that distance,
   a star dance, a planetary excursion,
   one goes never coming down again.
   I dream him near, but this is not talk,
   this is not giving him words to be happy about.
   What one imagines softens the flesh
   while stone continues to incarcerate
   whatever is left of his height and weight.
   It was this way he drove,
   this gesture containing his anger,
   and where he went
   perhaps a footprint survives
   because no one else has walked there yet.
   He in his bones cannot dress himself.
   He in his bones must lie down
   whether he sleeps without eyes
   or is simply indifferent.
   Is his boredom colossal
   needing a book on the knobs of his knees
   or a mouth's harangue
   to pester the holes in his head?
   A war he knew
   which snipped a finger
   from his musical hand.
   Yet without ears
   what can he play
   strictly without memory?