I and the disjointed notes
that wander out of this piano
breathing on occasion beneath my fingers
pushing its single lung
one of the hundred that lie flat
and straight against each other
pushing it up against my single finger
to cause with its collision
a guttered gasp of noise
and then quiet again
until unnerved the piano breathes again
and shoves the darkness back
for a half beat or two
which is one
and I sit here and wonder
about halves and wholes
about selves and souls
I and the lonely piano
which pushes itself against me
as a preventative to solitude
I keep the nighttime vigil
wondering what about this half self means
what does it take to make a soul whole.
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