By: Tsaurah Litzky

A giant egg
cracks over our heads,
thunder and lightening,
out from the piano keys
the ship tosses the storm,
worlds tremble,
oceans crest and curl,
Africa splits at the equator,
Kilimanjaro rises, falls
into the raging seas of eternal sorrow,
hurricane winds knock out
the windows, blow off the doors,
he makes my confession for me,
playing an old upright on East Third Street,
sewer rats become serpents,
glide up into the ragged trees,
a motley Eden but something,
Matt’s fingers lawless, free,
the line of his back as he sits
on the piano bench graceful as a willow,
the air clears,
it smells like salt.