The Harp Knows How to be Stripped Bare
And the fish knows how to be stripped bare.
And the bed. Each feels in the strumming
of its ribs the call for a missing part. A loss
less obvious than death. Like pocket change.
Like drought. Like learning how to not grow
old, as in uncapping the fountain of youth
and casting vapors on the world. So the harp
never buzzes, the fish never grays, the bed never
folds into itself. So the harp lives forever
on a stage. The fish, a chopping block. The bed,
on display in an empty room. And when the sun presses
its thick body against a nearby window—drown
the lights, pull the shades. Let them sing sad music, make
their love to the silence. Allow, at least, this modesty.