Those are not your hands that play -
they say things that fingertips could not say.
Dismembered, they are spiders
that frolick, scatter, crawl
as you sit upon your piano stool
and watch the worms that wriggle
down the throat of a black and white bird
that sings the most beautiful song I have ever heard.
AR
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Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you. The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear. La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross to reach you. For I am in love with you and this is what it is like or what it is like in words. -- Carol Ann Duffy
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