Bowls 3
(for Steve)

“You must see the world
differently,” you said. “You must—
Just then,

struck by your cupped hand
arcing the spine of my slim volume,
its chord. Your fingers, slender
as the legs of Pholcidae1 spiders,
still light on the page, resembling
grace, loosely held

filaments, silk spun like fingering
through the counters and bowls
of this score. You hold
the moment still, pulling
at this or that string, tension
in your hand balanced
by how lightly your fingers
strike chords, still.

—see poetry in everything.”

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[1] Daddy Long Legs