instrumental

I like the way pianos sound
when lowness comes to call.
The same sound from my ribcage
comes when nothing’s there at all.
I like the way the winter winds
do peel about my skin
when lowness sees my open eyes
and happily comes in.
I like the way my swollen room
(with naught but specious light)
does pale and close upon itself
when lowness takes the night.
I like the way I feel them more –
pure senses, left upon the floor
when lowness takes a thought away;
another every day.