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Poetry

The Piano, Jane Campion (1993)

May it be as it was in our rhapsodies.
Tethered to you,

oneiric assemblage of sea salt
ivory: you playing me

as I imagine the gods have,
cavorting on their mountain of stone.

Forgive me. This our default
condition: each of us versions of the other’s

own making. Call me melancholia. Whatever
you like, love, awash in you—call me

the horizon, a noose’s useless slack line,
call me whatever name

the pacing beast between us goes by.
I open myself for no other. What are we

if not vowels of thirst—
what are we when our hour has come.

Aphonic. Night-struck,
in tongues for which we have none.


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