Fingers fumble across strings, across flesh, across keys
It fills the small holes, where I’m told things should be
To squeeze each note, each gasp, into longing emptiness
And reverberate around heavily breathing souls

Choked up with cigarette smoke, and other small things
Designed to block harsh light from getting in
Absorb wooded tones, and metal scratchings
And drink one more glass

Of a clear spirit, prone to turn misty