Hour Eight: Cellina

Patience, like dawn, is a crawl, an arising, a long exhale.

One note at a time, I inch closer, stroking her hollow just so,

Enchanting the air, thrilling fingers, ears, tremulous vibrato,

Sweetening cilia, like swaying heather among the zephyrs,

Soft, I treble climb down her neck, sliding past her hips, floating,

Anchorless over the wires, close to the bridge, then retreating,

a gallant glissade, resonant in widening daylight, a tuneful opening.

If only she’d sing for me, if only I could master her, make her mine.

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