When night paints sky in bright white orange,
the poet dips this brush into their grave
and stumbles with dirt and ash
over the surface
of typewritten words, void of color,
embossed across the carbon page.
This bare landscape will tell their story
in dotted narrative that begs to be rolled
and run through a player piano,
so that the voice of another human
may not interrupt this final reward;
Like cotton cloth curled over a napping newborn,
an unblemished night in solitude.