Sunday, March 28, 2010

St. Tutilo

I’m always amazed at how his hands

move across the harp strings

like a fox galloping across those notes,

like plucking the bones of my vertebrae.

I am a cherry blossom on the verge.

With palms that size, he could uproot trees

with a single sweep of wrist,

dirt tumbling to my feet, his other hand

entwined in my hair.

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