I woke in a mirror that wasn't my own, counted my fingers — eleven, then none. The kettle was singing a name I forget, the window showed noon and a low crescent sun. Somebody's coat on the back of my chair, somebody's laughter still warm in the hall — I answer to it, I wear it, I swear I remember the shape of it all. Oh, copper reveries, green at the seams, I'm rich in the dreaming and poor in the proof. Hold me together with almost and nearly, I'll be the rumor that lived in your roof. If I am a story you told to a child and the child grew up and out — let the ending be gentle, unfiled, let there be doubt. There's dust in the piano, it sounds like the sea, I play what I never was taught how to play. And the dust says: you're welcome, you're welcome to me, and I stay, and I stay, and I stay.
