through the gaping, cracked, mourning
a finch’s pulse ceased. Salzburg never was
so distant before. In her hands, charcoal
sketchings. Long, nicotine stained depictions
of the man who stumbled. Growing up
in that house, even the shadows stumbled.
Piano recitals with a cane to correct errant
fingers. Aged, unsurprised, still unstuck,
too many trapdoors to fall through.
Matthew Pearson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-the-writer/
