Our dead friends

are trying to rekindle something bright

in our cold extremities. They worm their way

into these still somewhat vital organs

And play us. A restless dirge you might imagine,  

but no, it’s more a two-step.

Insomnia, meet my friend, Anhedonia.

Tearless all these weeks, then suddenly

Deep in the night, after midnight and well before dawn,  I wake, 

weeping. In this liminal time, between sleep and arousal,  tears 

flood my dream of you, at last, and I sit up in bed, soaked

In your memory. Your talented hands, I used to joke,  

were wasted on the keyboard.

Some strange arpeggio emanates

from the honey-colored instrument squatting sullen  

in the other room. Untouched

Your honey-colored dog worries

when I turn on the light. She hums along

for a moment, then takes a few turns and settles,

resumes her snoring.

I am grateful. This is how I relearn the scales: Phrygian, 

 melatonin, melodious. None of these.

In any case, the horizon we never closed our eyes

to sleeps, dies, wakes, continues yes.