Thursday, December 3, 2015

BUSKER

I promise to make you fresh
music each day, with all
that I've got. Which is only two things—

syllables stressed
and less-
stressed. Small words 

and those chittering 
patterns of them
which I learned—before I knew 

how to dress 
or tie 
my own shoes—by

parroting the tall glittering
fuss of grownups. 
But—in exchange, you must 

always agree 
to let—my instrument 
be simply 

the daily
currency of your breath—its pitches, 
your little inclinations; 

its timbre, 
only—
the voice in your head.

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