Pegasus Scissors
Late in my waiting fatigue,
I notice the music stand
standing alone, wings spread
and empty of the scored sheet.
This impedance to this scrawl of a soul
plucks out a placebo pizzicato
on the guy wires of my increasingly neon
vacancy, so that I hear
riding displaced ions
of the rained air
the song of kissed metal, hum of spit
on the truly mouthpiece.
The window is open and ready
for your return, Wendy—
Mount your Pegasus scissors, Piper
fly from Never Never
to no further Hamlin
than dances in a pied eye.
The grace of ten thousand journeymen
and masters of the guild of tailors
guide your hand
as you cut this swath
of coat of colors of swatches
offered by a rainswept day.
