pitch

 

i’m in the guest bedroom,

writing down all the hymns.

 

i’m guessing at some of the

words; welling up at others:

 

streams of mercy

never ceasing.

 

there’s a built-in happiness

in the notes, the chords;

 

the memory of fingers

flying over piano keys.

 

i am wooden wind chimes

in a metal world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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