No longer walking
the straight & narrow,
no longer restricted to the harsh
amens of service,
now it’s your turn to be held still
for the sawing of some
effete bow, generations removed
from any kinship with arrows.
But you’re free!
And this song of yours
never have been heard.
You put your whole body
into it, still ascetic,
but now for the cause of art.
There’s a sweet spot, the street
musicians say, & they find it
in you. Where the heart might be,
systole & diastole in perfect balance,
if you were more than cartilage.
The pure tone floats up
through two octaves of rejoicing
at your deliverance
Or is this grief?