photo_camera by Photo by Josep Molina Secall on Unsplash
Peters til you dip the quill,
or restore the chin with air
lifting off the violin
cradle. In listen, dip,
rejoice, I don’t so much abstain
as pace myself.
I hear teeth in the tree, unwinding
a nut. I don’t so much
rejoice as put comfort
back that I take in me first.
The heart, assisted, grows
weary of the black & white
of activated flags in the fascia’s
Go. Only metaphors, leaving
one loaf of bread to head for another,
can sustain us, I hear
one note say to the next.
And believe them; believe me; eat.
