Increase intensity through attention, pressure, weight,
or time, to hear the singing in a higher register—
The same way a threaded button spins faster, looser
or more taut, depending on the varied register
of fingers pulling at the edges. I prefer lower, mellow
notes to shrill, but there is power too in upper registers—
but there must be absolute precision there, no way to flub
the reach by saying, Oh, I was just trying a jazzy register…
In the low-lit bar, patrons sent up slips of paper and requests.
But though the pianist crooned his best, not all could register
the depth of feeling poured into a song: something with a blue moon
or a river, the way you looked the night when I first registered
the tilted axis of the room, banal rush of traffic outside in the rain:
unusual warm night in late winter, that too a kind of register.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- After Apocalypse
- Déjà vu
- Dear Life,
- Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:
- In the grove
- Burning the Wishes
- Ghazal, with Piano Bar in Winter
- Strange fur, this fine
- Cold Snap
- What I wanted to say
- In fallow season
- Dream Metonymy
- Ash Wednesday
- Mouth Stories
- Zuihitsu for G.
- [poem removed by author]
- Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—