A man at the bus stop lugs
his cello with such vigour it
scares me.
Unlike him, I’m estranged from
my music. The evening
makes song from the hollow of
my body,
the way the man does from his instrument.
I used to think calling my cries song would
save me. Ha.
My sadness fed on miscellaneous images.
// a shard of ice coated in snow,
oil hovering on water, the semi-dark
denying me my-
self.
I was a blackbird’s whistle
asking for mercy in
the midst of an
orchestra.
The porch listened.
It leaned further into the night
where, finally, I disappeared.