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.