jealousy

with his fingers
hammering
the keys of his grandmother’s steinway
and the pedals crashing
     up and down
and his hair wild with music;
the whole room was filled with sound,
beautiful, pure sound
sound that made you angry and speechless and
calm and confused,
sound was floating in between his lips
with the dust of forty years
unsettled from their graves in the
old linen curtains:
an open window hid in the corner
where the birds all perched,
their feathers still
and eyes furious with envy

trains

the way the sun was striking the,
flashing metal glints of
the
  trains
there was a blinding
epiphany
of light and sound
and the tracks were great, steel veins;
how they,
curve,
and twist elegantly:
       not unlike that of a flowering vine,
                        or the thin, naked spine
of the radiant woman who stole the thunder
from the mid-august storms,
   the,
             glowing dusky warm, warm, warm skies-
skies that hover,
  hover around the station,
mixing with engine ssssssteam.