This piano doesn’t get played enough to be
tuned once every six months, to have each string
stretched until the note it plays sits right
between half a step above and half a step below
my fingers are hammers on the keys
that strike hammers against the un-maintained strings
like tiny memories and revelations
triggering signal pitches through synapses
dampened by soft colors and sounds
or clarified, amplified, echoed in
sustaining pedals of sleep and
darkness
as I listen and start to imagine
all of the intricacies of tuning a piano.