slow-motion cool, calligraphing the air as if to polish sound

to a diamond, as if to brush your way into the core

of the simple progression, everything about you is a light

touch, a deft waltz shuttling fractals across a barn floor in

looping peregrinations, I imagine zooming in close to

the vibrations and getting lost in their gentle chaos

the muted strings humming around me like hair, I imagine

the roughness of the wind as it traffics around the sound hole

pushing waves of dusklight back into the room’s lungs

a breeze whipped up by a fast body in a wide skirt

your weakstrong voice perfect and scarcely believable, your

porcelain mask brittle but whole, I haunt your desert world

as the sun wings through the open windows, a different sun

to mine, older and tired, glowing with the waxy orange of

experience, your song suspended in the atmosphere

like a wince, a smirk, the percussion of ideal love

everything temporary but falling exactly into place, then you

paint yourself and your song out of the picture until all that’s left

is the dry air, the stopped breath, the shock of a heart cracking

under the weight of incomprehensible fullness