Brooks Schmitt

The Symphony

O, to dance on the piano keys barefoot
Feel cold skin erupt against your touch
Black keys between your toes,
her hair in your eyes
An unrestrained smattering of unholy notes
The blissful clutches of the vacuous harpsichord
Waiting for the spasms in the walls of flesh
In the fervor of the instrument, a warm storm
pours on the festival of sound raging beneath