She, a being of 80 years,
sagging flesh, and
creaking bones,
sat down in front of the piano.
Her mangled fingers
touched the keys.
With a great effort,
she pressed down.
Flowing.
Lovely.
Beautiful.
Snaking in
and out
between the congregation.
Rising,
falling,
growing, and
finally decaying
into the finale.
The art
is the same
body
as the artist.
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