BRANDON SHIMODA
FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT
There's a piano in every room,
concealed in an ornament
of wood. I, quail
gather beneath the Ming theatre
scenes, overwhelming
the painted rocks.
Play to the sea. Cross
your left leg over
your right. Put your right
arm around me. Sing
to the sea. I, quail
crest into a gray mirage, each
turned away from the light,
say, Mother, we're moving
to Tucson.