Saturday, June 3, 2017

Hands on Old Instruments

Sitar gourd and accordion lungs
Sing, if you let them,
A song of love
From the notes that are freed
To the woodsmoke of a home,
Remembering themselves
Under fingers
And beckoning others
To create in dream
What was real once
From other lovers
Studious before the silence,
For the ghosts,
If that is what they are,
Tell what is true
In the false hardness of objects,
The distance of eyes,
They say your desire
Is not imagined,
Only incomplete,
Lacking only the crypt to hold
All the love you give.
They wait, elusive, for you to
Find this silence
Past the clamor of voices
Scorned,
What left in the air
Bent tones, crying sounds.

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