Inside Smile

Sometimes, a room blooms like a black 
flower, even in morning, and my ears 
burn with the memory of hollow notes. 
Sometimes, music fills me with a longing 
I balance carefully
like a sphere of paper-thin glass on my head 
while I’m walking down the street and it feels
like I’m in a really low-budget circus 
and the audience keeps throwing peace signs 
like darts to nowhere. 
Sometimes, when night is deep, 
I remember how red leather my heart is, 
that there’s a piano I can’t play anymore 
but the notes I imagine sound new 
as blades of grass between my toes, 
and there’s champagne melting 
on my tongue, and these legs of mine 
which never lied.