after noon

Devonte Hynes zone out music

I think about a silent cottage where humans have to constantly touch the outside
to keep it so : it's an exercise to exorcise the demons of our guilt,
feeling all types of ways for not calling our families, our sisters,
our fathers, our nieces.
It's a melancholy fielded fire.
To cool down we gaze outside at the twinkling greenery off great
limbs testament to time : the trees that umbrella our feet
when we knead soil to feel we are nature again.

Later, in the city,
I think about running for buses, that loneliness of it being all on you,
and the loneliness too of humans in their cars looking at the next
human in their car. Little metal cubicle. Little feet in an incomprehensible
world.

But I think about pianos mostly. That's a lie:
I think about people like pianos, as in heavy and impossible to ignore,
with endless and strange tunes.

Pianos lurking through underbrush sounding
like ocean when touched.
Detectives silently watching us soothe
the outside, this ghost cottage, where all we do
is "should" ourselves into circles.

Aging like trees with rings of guilt and lonely feet.