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Piano

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Her wattled fingers can’t
stroke the keys with much
grace or assurance anymore,
and the tempo is always
rubato, halting, but still
that sound—notes quivering
and clear in their singularity,
filing down the hallway—
aches with pure intention, the
melody somehow prettier
as a remnant than
whatever it used to be.

Source: Poetry (September 2011)

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This poem originally appeared in the September 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

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Piano

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