composition


the hands of Joyce Carol Oates

two preening birds flutter, smoothly
breezing the room into a lull

violin bows sculpting thoughts
in the air with graceful exposition

the cursive script of a maestro
slender, vivacious yet veined

with indigo ink faded on a page
the glimmer quilled from those fingers

typing away steadfast, intelligent
or stroking a swaying piano, silk

harp strings caressed into echoing the
collective breath of a forest

or holding a number two Ticonderoga
lead barely shadowing creamy

antique paper. even solid silver
rings adorning those musical

pencils are light, airy and elegant
poetry of the body titillating

songbirds of the quiet, dusky dawn

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