I collapse into the cracks that emanate a glow from your soul, sunbeams and I blink before I sink into them, sunrise warmth spills, as I pull away the curtains, an embrace that stops time, and everything bursts into light.
From the window this harp, an airy gilding the alchemic day has crafted in syndicate with a lingering dust, flocking fleck of spin and spiral and tuck and reemergence—movement the thread to twist and entwine to fine twine of light, imploring play from capable hands;
now how to soften in osmotic aim, to oblige the silent song—hands to know only epitaphs, to strum shadow like weaving dark into light, to strum an obscurity forever clumsy and undevised, to strum a noiseless nothing. Composer! how you fret to hear your song while the deaf smile on you.