To bend a note against the air
with ribbon of throat and tongue
or electric string of a guitar
under sky made blue by sun
is almost all I want, this warp
in the fabric of myself, like crow
in the tall pines at noon,
to owe my voice to no one.
Of course I sing and play
so poorly that I mostly listen,
but now at last I hear what matters
and do not ask for what is missing.
It is not a coincidence
that I pray in harmony
with the sounds I most love.
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