An insect lies dead stiff upon the piano
The music spread forgotten on the stand
I want there to be meaning in the tableau
But somehow meaning is not close at hand
The insect's death a hackneyed demonstration
An uninventive protest to the end
No web of winding sheets no weeping nation
No funeral for grieving insect friends
I brush its lifeless body from the keyboard
And take my place upon the piano stool
And sitting rest my fingers on the first chord
And play and sing of nothing much at all
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