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—
discriminate
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.
