Faint fingers fumble
for a coin in the dark
a handhold on a slick surface
seven splintered notes
abandoned by the side
of the road, forgotten
I think they belonged
to a piano concerto once
or maybe the chorus
of a well-loved pop song
they’ve long since lost
the story of original sin
unbound by family, they are
the ultimate in uncultured
tribeless feckless whim
free to clash and crash at will
headlong into oncoming traffic
they’ll leap blindly
into the abyss, if someone
dares them to
a voice keeps calling our names
bidding us come, stay, wait, go
we dance down dark alleys
in the midst of a snowstorm, barefoot
music without shape, singing
out of tune, and laughing

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 05.24.11)

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