Days play like piano keys:
One high, another ⅜ black
3 pitches redder in tone,
8 in the shake of a jug of wine
Held by the renegade hands
Stretched to pound bones by day
Laying bricks by night
Fondling the plastic Penguin notes
With tiny glove kisses
As if chopping red onions
Classy sounds soothing the Sun-Days
Deaf sounds approaching the D-Day
Days that her hands can chord no more
Days of the piano keys that no ear
Is soft enough to hear,
Lips breathing heavenly…
Unnumbered.