Art For Her Sake

I a low buzz, maybe a hum? under my note. I hear it—see it. give up the piece or keep it, keep it. art with children, new, gray. Blessed are the music makers. II Thoracic curve, eyes down. weight, not of the world, but of my own creation, pulls my head by a string. bare feet to be grounded. “you’re a modern child” says the master. “there is a weight to you,” she says with an old twinkle and a smile. III pencils, down. luckily, I write with pen. the entire world in a squid’s heart my life is not here; a future —down the hall. but there is something. there. I am a note, a curve, a stroke. modern’s child, gift of weight in my throat.