Music
Such clothes it threads
with every strumming tool -
I awake to the songs skinned on me;
the nerve of hairs,
a delicious fur of vibrations.
Sometimes my cause
is electric, my itch desired
for the rough;
an octave split upon
the humpback whale,
a pulse shredding;
ribbon thick.
Sometimes my cures
are private embryonic sounds;
cell prints, a repeat of microscopic
mothers.
Curling into the oyster paint
of a shell;
sometimes I touch hermit blood.
At the point of it is too -
a dripping neon,
where fingers come together
in the dark. They embrace
the vocals,
silk tips of petals healing;
the slide of hand
and slight of breath;
water becoming, over the rim.
(I know the harp upon the wing
of hesitation – my speakers
are turned down, humming.)
It connects each fibre glass
strung and stroked
within the tectonics of the day;
a hush of grass from a lonely hill
or the piano deaths
of the ocean’s roar
and moves me into
everything; this wave
womb-heroic, this acorn place
inner ear;
obscure memories
of a once known comfort.
