wrecks

i could see
fingers of birds
on the piano
as if they
remembered the song
,unspecifically, as if
holding the sun
in their hands
they hammered paradise
to a wooden
place and music
flew in crossfire
,wild and high,
soaring, occasionally striking
the right notes
.notes falling dead
as wood chips
.the music
bundled away in
burlap of a
soft sky; soft
hums bent to
my ear bending
down as rain
,patting the skin of
an old shirt
.what was left
of it anyway.