With the possibility of music still remotely existing, 

the mind goes to the back reaches of a warehouse

where anything can be forgotten, but perhaps

instead it was lost to the Atlantic like the rest

of the El Faro, the water filling the shipping container, 

or what if (you imagine) the container resisted the rush

of water and what of the pressure from the depth,

breaking the strings eventually over time, a strange

song all to itself, yes, but still a song? How amazing

to think of the neurons that guide our thoughts,

the mystery of an image and its source like some kind

of god gone reckless with sense. We may not be the music

or the piano, but we are able to imagine ruin with just

as much force or promise as the simple act of loss itself.