What mouth cries to feed upon
what muffles it? Please,
don't let this happen to me-

to be overcome by becoming,
to be persuaded by learned fears.
Don't let this happen to me.

First, the bird sings.
Satisfies the tree. The winds.

Or did the dream of singing
break and wounded, choke upon
its own sad beauty? Secondly, we live

and so we live gorgeously. The merits
of our stories, the strings that shake
and quiver beneath our calloused fingers

shape our destiny. Every chord
be true, be humble, be music.

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