When I think nothing
will bring back the green
rush of spring in my chest,
I think of the African thumb
pianos in the French Market,
little note cool and full
as a drop of water, peeling slow
down the back of my neck, and if
that note were the last drop
of water I’d ever taste, and therefore
not enough to save me,
I would stick out my tongue,
I would drink it all the same.