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.