i am not a musician.
i am the busker playing
a rib cage
xylophone
at the end of time.

i am the hole,
the wind regrets.
but,
the wind has no memory.
only a throat full of
other people’s echoes.

i am not a poet.
i am the margin,
where the ink gave up
and started bleeding sideways.

i am the fart
the universe stifles.
yet, the cosmos expands
at exactly 9.8 m/s² per rectal surprise.

i am the perfect flute
because my cracks
whistle in pythagorean commas
when the moon is gibbous.

because i am
already
broken,
and fracture is just
the first harmonic
of an unspeakable chord.

i am only searching for the wind.
but,
the wind is searching
for a better instrument.
we are each other’s
disappointment
and this
is the duet.

this is to be whispered while
spinning in a circle.
i could have been a violin,
but, my strings were
spider silk and spite,
the bow was a scythe,
the song was
the sound of a glacier
apologizing to a stone.
the stone remains
a faithful flute
for a dying glacier.