the glass house project. (entry 9)
inside my chest
it's foreign -
like paris in the fall.
and it's growing,
and 16th notes -
it's a symphony, really.
and at night, it sings me to sleep
with melody and harmony and all the mastery
of Beethoven and Chopin
and delicate hands that know just the right way
to tickle ivory.
hands that reach past an octave
into runs and runs of chords
and an occasional rendition of 'chop sticks.'
to which my heart sings the baritone
and then speeds to the first soprano
airy, light - fast
and i don't want
to slow it down