Under oak veneer and Bevelled glass, She is sad sometimes. Complex, an orchestrion Rattled, buzzing inside: Something in dark where Whippens work; something Stirring in dark over Maple pinblock and bridge, Ridges and racks of Brass and ash --spruce Shim slipped from A soundboard crack, Lost levers veiled in Danger and promise. What dark entails: Searching after a Spring fails. I press. A little felted hammer Strikes no reply. Sometimes she is sad And can't remember why.