They say sing and you do, blithely, bright as a bird, as the cracked meat, red on a white plate and I sit, stoppered up, shy, private with my hands doing some small dance on my hidden lap– my playing, better but yours, public–   some future date some stray breath of sea snaps the line taut once more and there, the distant glitter of the off key–I still don’t perform to strangers, any of the secrets, knuckle deep, shell sweet.