What sings the violin?
What moves the wind to chant?
No player, only playing—
no want, no can’t.

The high, the low, the broken note,
the cry that cracks the air—
all rise from the same unheard hum
that has no name to bear.

You are not the voice,
nor the hand that strums the wire.
You are the space between the chords,
the stillness behind fire.

Call it grief, call it grace,
call it fierce or fair—
every note is emptiness
dressing itself in air.

So let the music have its way,
its thunder, hush, or cry.
What hears the song was never born,
and never has to die.

A rumble elicits before a grunt
Each slit, an inch you maim
Set by a thump: two sets of feet.
Feet slide down your back the same
Tips of fingers on a run: tap, tap, tap.

Your flick bright,
Alabaster like
An unnamed saint
I’d canonise softly, with a sigh.

A sight to see.
Indeed,
You extricate a garden off the earth
A sculptor handling bronze,
Licked in salt and sweat.
Sweetness, melanated girth.

Then you huff, close-in
Nearing my neck as a king
I first feel tired
Kneeling tightly, high, a considerable martyr

At your mercy I capsize.
I am a ship, a wreck.
So Raphael, know, when my ******* drip wholly
Into your chest and into your hands,
So is my soul. So is my heart.