I’ll have the piano tuner
for his fingers even the one that’s
half-missing   inaction
stripping his skin to jazzed-up

Thursday I’ll have his face
Friday his telltale hair
the strand that lops over his eye
canicular         like summer when the room stings

with his reserve   pitching what he hears
in drum and hammer         coquillage
so pearled and pure I want him to come back

next week         unlock
the spleen in a semitone     petite fleur
swimming from one end of his memory
to my hippocampus   fudged         and back
leaving a wake of structure in the keys
        the spine of residual stars

on my deathbed too   I want him
tuning the tunnels from here to all the phantoms
no fanfare     just pp             though agitato’s okay
        if that’s what he wants
we won’t be such strangers by then