You’re sitting there, listening to the sound
of distant pianos seeking to reach
beyond the surface of a higher ground,
while quiet waves roll steady on the beach.
What music you should hear this afternoon
is none that I could play, but then I can’t
manage to achieve one useful tune,
though still am able to produce a rant.
Your voice is silent, and I am not sure
it needs to be accompanied by mine,
which is, alas, not delicate or pure;
less than a song, but certainly a whine.
I ache to hear, I wish to dance and play
on this late evening at the end of May.
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