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?