space is where all the good stuff is happening
grass – we used to hide and come.
sand – the pain still in our bones today.
grass and sands –
of home
at night we lie on aching backs
thighs open to the skies
offering ourselves to
some other home imagined.
the old man on a bike.
dry the lips on the mouthpiece,
dry the summer –
tender the fingers on the string.
the drum has no skin
yet the song its beat –
we still sing.
discipline in defeat.
strength in bringing sadness home.
“and no more sadness than absolutely necessary.”
(a zeze, a six stringed two necked instrument.)
its necks are infested with worms,
eating away the insides of the wood,
producing small heaps of dust on the ground
where it leans against the wall.
the musician plays,
while the neck is disappearing under his hands.
eventually, it will break under the pull of the strings,
maybe even in the middle of a tune.
but, at this moment, we can still hear the musician play.
with life becoming
what it is becoming now
we will need a lot of song