A Single Sculpted Note

If I were a musician I would compose this story for you,
sing it right out to the ever-seeing stars
perhaps,
or play it out in calligraphy
on a piano,
have it come sprouting out
in raw note form from the mouth of a trombone.

For these words from my lips
burn my throat
splinter my emotions in a thousand directions
and to assure you of my truth
I must swell the sky with fathoms of foreign words
rather than sculpt one single note
to wring the sky clear





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