poetry book

my mother taught me that every night
just as my fingers on these keys
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
he'd even have his joke
little park that i pass through
who will be naming the wind
it was many and many a year ago
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
in your flight
have you not heard
a pen of steel
to be able to see every side of every question
i stood
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be