Say Chopin
and mean wren,
mean sunlight
through the snow-
powdered window,
crumpled sheets
at the foot of the bed
or their joy
at first seeing the little bird
looking in,
pecking at the glass.
What lasts?
Chopin,
looking 
for his shorts,
wanting more
than anything
now
his buttered
biscuits,
tea,
his piano.