Be it so

Be it so:
The piano.
The keys.
The catalyst hands
carved from oak
stenciled in stone:

Be it so: 
Without a cover, 
uninsulated air dust  
diluting one-by-one— 
fields of fallen follicles. 

Be it so: 
Metallic veins rusted from  
dehydrated vibrations 
swing at a fingertip  
strokes that stem  
serenading sounds  
of phantasmagoria; 

Be it so: 
The voices. 
The whispers. 
The humming. 
An aptitude for attitudes. 

A sway of the cranium  
in the form of an  
upside down protractor— 

subtle, yet generates inertia.   

Be it so:
Skim a transcribed note sheet      
a meticulous, methodical, memorization 
of sanitizing notes 
hanging from line segments and 
portraying shuffled majors  
or shallow minors      
glass-cracked tropes.

Be it so: 
Illiterate eyes      
Plain white paper. 
makes for harmonious 
elephant waltz  
perhaps; any permutation of 
magisterial mahogany. 

Be it so:      
Frolic with the right. 
Scamper with the left. 
The in-between. 
Each essential, to the fracturing 
of the piano–cuento–prose. 

Be it so:
Once a year,  
taken out of  
the cricket shadows  
from the attic.

“Let it breathe,” you say.  
“Set it free.”   

Those chapped,  
desert lips  
once told me 
it takes two  
or three, 
never less  
to tickle a key.