where have you been to see
a morning so clear that once
broken it could be distilled
and held in the distance between
keys on that grand piano?

how still to hear the brush
of velvet on cold marble
and then tease it from cold
strings with the pads
of your fingers?

did you sprawl beneath
an open storm and how long
did it take
for your skin to surrender
to the incessant drops
opening up to let them into
your chest through
to the base of your spine?

and where must I have
stood and listened and lay
to hear and recognize
a moment so singular
and desperate?