so often, I believe
without blinking:
how all of time
and space
have converged
to make
just the tiniest
crescent-shaped edge
of my brittle
and milky-white left
pinky finger nail.
But it makes me
so nervous, I could chew it
to shreds
when I apprehend these
minuscule melodies
in me
without having seized
on the artistry
to see
whose subtle fingers
may yet swiftly
descend
and depress
the right keys
to release them.
