Wednesday, November 16, 2022


I guess I can only 
believe it 
when they tell me 

that eternities 
of time 

and all 
of vast space 

had to converge
like a car crash 
and congeal 

just to create the rough, 
serrated edge 

of my milky-white, 
brittle right-
hand pinky fingernail. 

And yet, it makes me 
nervous enough 

to chew the thing 
clean off 

to know that 
there ought to be 
so many melodies—

and ancient, and all 
bundled up inside of me—

which only some set of fingers 
distant and opaque to me

knows how 
to choose from—and to truly 
play well.