I wonder at the world's lean
Whether it's leant to free fall or in a full blow
Might billow its sail-like, sea-rounded face; awed
Might pleat a well life-lined palm
With thought, syllable, wonder

While I lace shoe string to shimmer; weigh
What's best, head to moon,
Heart to grave

As poorly whittled bones will their way past mine:
Sharp-edged, mercenary; framed
By asphalt, neon...

But to pause, to grasp a melody
Born from star-fired porcelain:
A music box of sorts, the width of the wind; a grand
Sound-pastel emerging, uncoiling
Its brilliant cipher

Its tones warm the raw air; a root's well-shaped brow.

Its notes masked as jagged stone, jaw, petal, moss;
Its scale shaped as open space,
As loam; as what will become, can be

The box's gears turn sun to shade. Ornate springs
Swirl; filigree, bight, blossoming,
Yet blending; rise as shell, as gust; fall
From the melody's well-spoken soil

And no, it's no star-shed song
Spilled open. It’s more than frame
Or lace; more than whitecap, white pine, willow

It's refrain and box as one; it's what is
And what is again, whatever
The shadow of its carve or sheaf

How simple, well-seamed: is not
Never inked; now as more…

Perhaps as breeze on leaf; rain on gutter; wave
On foot-printed sand.