I once found beautifully familiar.
Bruised chin-rest of the violin, gaunt
clef pinned to its corner.
Razor stirring in the basin.
The rope speaking quietly to a string.

They were quiet, hurt things.

In the shifting drift-horns of clouds,
the muttering trumpet of the east,
roads thinning to rivulets, fidgeting around
the dead tufts of birds. Tambourines
blacked out and flutes leaked thin
blood from the mouth.

Then I could no longer let it into the house.

And when the bomb became an instrument,
I lost my ship of music, my singing lantern.
And I watched us take good care of the end—
spooning our sockets, piling dirt, hilling
earth to keep some curve to the planet, some
soft swell.

(The rest of the notes
were fugitive birds, flying swift,
tearing through the deadly staff.)