I sat in silence and removed all of myself.
When he called my name, I was a long way under.
Where?
Practicing, paper white, hours, 85 beats
per second, transparent sheath, wings hidden by outer shell.
To all appearances, to him calling my name
and entering the room, nothing had changed.
There is a place one can exist where the boisterousness
of mind is not a lesion.
Engraved brass, body, French, anonymous, Rosewood.
Someone has saved these instruments we call watermarks.
Though wading through leaves somewhat erased,
we are able to see beyond multiple smudge marks,
hear the silence of colors as the sky
changes inside our closed eyes.