FINALE

        (for Hammerhands.)

So you no longer want to 

play music anyhow—

for what music 

could coax renewed 

substance from shadow,

or transcribe absent echos  

to original score,

or soundtrack 

winter's deaf, blank 

finality of snow? 

But somewhere deep

in the twitching 

of muscles;

in the shadows 

where capillaries drum 

along bones;

in the labyrinthine swirls (as 

a seashell 

by the ocean) 

of the exquisite folds 

of the inner 

ear, you notice:

that as long as 

you're able, by 

definition, to persist,

you can never 

bear witness to such 

suitable silence—

through each triumph 

and each stillness, 

in greatest 

gratitude and grief, 

your delirious, 

lunatic heart 

will keep repeating 

the only note 

it knows.