I hold my guitar to pluck at the microphone 

To hear what it sounds like,

To make something beautiful 

It rests in my lap with my hand on its neck

The hole in the heart of it empty and waiting for me

And I strum to give it something to say 

I play her so gently

And the mic picks it up and I can hear it, it’s soft, like a bird you aren’t touching

Feathers falling into a stream. 

I play it over and over

Again and again and each time the sound coming out of the speakers fills in the grave  of this shaking heart

With each turn they grow bigger, feeding each other, worms without words

A nest for just cries

And the crows in the trees turn to thunder 

And this hole is so full of a sound that I gave it

And this heart is screaming back sounds that I wanted it to sing 

But I’m not touching anything 

A forest of wailings. 

Too loud for the speakers 

I have to turn it off.

2023