sometimes I am too conformed to the shape
of music to hear the trapeze and
trampoline of flute and synth flinging ever
toward the eternal soundscape. pigeon
percussion next door the clanking spoons
below– I think we need distance.
Your heartbeat swells across soundstage,
no stethoscope, no starlight though once
we wanted to be famous. or want. it is
complicated. we are more paranoid
of strangers than ever before. that’s
no baking sheet, it’s rustling leaves,
not your shoes or mine. You ask
questions I don’t have.
(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Summer 2024)