(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:
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.