face is covered in calluses. His brow is deafened with hair like
a rock in the sea. His eyes open their feeding fringes on a salty
light, and his ears are full of mussels. His mind, too, expands
slowly in its opaline casing like a mollusc.
With the powerful
mandibles of the sea-hyena he splinters his prototype fortepianos,
cracking open the naturals for their marrow, licking his lips
over lickerish flats and sharps.
A sonata for snapped
strings proves taxing. By the time hes scratched the final
flourish beneath the dedication to his married second cousin,
the heap of violins behind his chair is keeping the loyal little
maid from dusting the rows of little royal figures she arranged
on his derelict harpsichord.
down in the end at the end of a chain, in a shroud with wraparound
sleeves. It’s years before his time and the moon is empty.
The monumental marble he left unfinished, Multiple Collision,
is placed on the tomb, just in case.