Tuesday, March 25, 2008

dclxiv

Harps

Trumpets out each bay window.
And a glass of water (with cucumber).

I walk him downstairs
with a keyboard, hail him a cab.
He’ll play a few bars
(lemon and lime, ba-da-boom, etc.)

Harps!   My fingers bled each night
during rehearsal.   It doesn’t matter.
You still get played.

Sometimes it’s glorious.
Touch my skin
underneath this spot
where I shaved
and maybe someday they’ll find a tumor.
Read it aloud.

We’ve got medicine for that, too.

Angels’ wings draw nigh.
A new set in time for breakfast.