I didn’t think to sell the slice of fabric
melted to the frets on the
breast plate of the instrument.
It held down the magic,
went murmuring on,
even made millions of excuses for the
dead beat notes knotting up the back of the room,
killed the mood while the moon
went winking on like an insane drummer,
drilling beats until the death of that first kiss
was drawn in the notes of the song.
The tiny thing I hated, it fit too perfectly into my house,
the little bird that broke and bent me with its breath,
singing it loved me, lovingly played me,
a game graced by the hand of a blindfolded girl.
The final fret grew thin
and gave way, so the belly-up beast departed.
I stayed – simpered and stewed
in a bed of glass and gave the game a go again.
Now damask the eyes of my opponent,
a tuxedoed cat, over-scented and strumming chords,
raking leaves to cover the graveyard of the last.
Tell me, lover, what will you do with the rhythm of the years,
the past, the tears amassed?
