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Poetry

The Requiem

by Barrett Warner


    The voice of her leaving
    still rings in my heart,
    a language of doorbells,
    wind chimes and telephones,
    sound waves turned into light
    and the light dancing
    mirror to mirror
    until it becomes a noise all over,
    bending and loud and rhythmless,
    a broken muffler dragging
    behind a speeding dark sedan,
    a heavy metal drifting
    across the periodic table.

    They don't give Grammies
    for this kind of music,
    but I'm a radio on two legs,
    wireless, my eyes sparkling
    with its maddening hertz.
    Listening to this strange Mozart
    I wonder how many more centuries
    until we invent the piano
    he was fingering in his mind,

    and when, when will our hearts
    be big enough to play that song?

 

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