My wife is arranging beads,
considering which large one
might work in the center of a necklace.
I am telling her stories about John Cage
after skimming a biography,
painting a picture of what
I really don't grasp.
Cage let a fire alarm go off all night,
resting comfortably
as he considered its place
in the silence around him.
I couldn't do that.
On the ride up to the cabin
I almost drove into a bridge
just to change the tempo of things.
How about this one? she says,
holding up a brown shell disc.
That would look good on you, I say.
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