You tell of burning stars falling
You, are sweet and haunting.
Your melody begins on a minor sixth
up, then a tri-ple-let down.
It is the oboe against
the rustling starscape of strings until
they claim the song for themselves
with the cascade of a harp.
You are the story of sweeping
love that burns galaxies
whole, punctuated with sighs and brass
You rise and fall as naturally
as chests with breaths, with more
grace and art than water claiming its stain
on a sandy shore.
Your triplets are as steady as the turn
of a galaxy around a single soul.
I have never quite managed the art of
pinching into an audience’s mind
and drawing a shard of their heart out.
you do it every,
every, every, time.