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Seen from the night sky,
pristinely white
In four November walls
Your shoulders glow.
My palm travels solo
across the piano of your body,
heading beyond the Arctic Circle
of the plexus solar,
northwards, towards the blue whirl.
The ice lava cover my wrists
and flows at speeds
rarely exceeding
1 millimetre of the skin
per second.
The palm slows down
hit by the hot star
before taking off into the new white avalanche –
the vast, untamed blizzard of fingers
sprawling in all directions
the 4th symphony of Shostakovich.
The morning comes
with songs of blue geese
migrating over the keys of
one fragile silent piano.