when he plays
music notes gather on top of tiny hills
above his nose
then slowly slide
amused
down the valley of his chin
onto his supple violin

when he inhales
he fills his nostrils up with clouds
and lets them cry inside his lungs
until his breath comes out a garland of sweet light
through his panpipe

his fingers touch the brown guitar
he tickles, pinches, gets close but still a bit too far
way up into his weary head. his worried heart
wails loud and tears old worlds apart

in all that unity he's preaching
there is no real right or wrong
mere words for a hard-headed woman
from a tough gong who belongs to his song