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Poem

My neighbor's piano swirls around her finger
likened to a keyed car where scrapes linger.

She teases out a tune as we both try to hum
along with swirling keys her fingers drum.

The naturals and the flats whirl around
us as we mount her piano earthbound.

Her slap grooves my cheekbone to her hand. The sting grooves
with a vinyl record hissing. My neighbor moves
between the outlining appearance of a bee
in golden gyrations till her swat smacks the bee.

Her canter thumps a vase. Calm peonies revolve
along its rim as arrangements dissolve.

Between her turntable and windowsill's moth rack,
the bee puts up a fight. It can't get off its back,
an eeriness like a sixth sense that it will cease
to bob six legs. Each tonearm's reach needles a crease

of dead air. Although the buzzing makes the final
cut, the static starts with a vinyl
record, this one's translucence as golden as bees
in the sunlight. The record plays
while the neighbor fusses over a vase of peonies;

I brush her ears with small talk till we're both tongue-tied.
A high pitch taps a cicada to hide
horizons like a mountain-raised shadow
smoothing out summer's every echo.

Dark accidentals cascade into ghost-white keys.
The sun-licked honey floats its naturals
till a petal at the windowsill moats its musk

around the bee's indoor husk. A pesticide breeze
platters the buzz-freeze fellow on its back
warped in sunshine like a vinyl record
with an overheated edge, the record,
in turn, pedaling peonies and pianos

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