proof was needed
that truth and beauty
come in particles
and waves—
rough but discrete
and mercifully light,
a song behaves
like a handy palliative
used to modulate
one's tolerance to life—
whereas
singing itself
is a very different catalyst;
like a whittling knife
to basswood, it's the honing
of routine
through rigorous daily
practice
to a thing that feels
sleek, but looks
preposterous.
