Look, two hands
Whose twists wring out the cloth
And the bucket
Bucket full of black water
Like a closed piano.

The surface jumps and scowls
Like when a dead heart
Drops in blood
Like the moon upon
Sleepless rooms.

It spills and rolls,
Turns — a head, there it is,
Shrunken, white,
Eyes blank, teeth looking out.
Standing I survey it.

Idea that’d agitated to clot:
A collage of feelings and events
A plaintive tune floats in time
From depths of the keyboard.

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