With just a broken set,
A dirty pair,
Swollen out of shape examples,
Of what digits can be,
He shook the room,
And laid low the foundations,
Of fast formed thoughts,
Which struck the bewildered attendees.
Like Joyce and his eyes,
Or Proust’s endless maladies,
Misfortune cast a shroud on the world,
So those greater parts he may not see.
On the edge of a piano bench,
Straightened keys are meant to be,
The arrows guiding his crooked senses,
Moulding his mind on a roiling sea.
A cabin room of black and white,
Two colours all that he can see.