You said I sounded
like an actor in a poorly rehearsed play, so
I gave up speaking in favor of the Hindustani drone,
of music waving like seaweed, wrote songs
about the foothills in flower with tarweed and poppies,
about the threadbare hat I filched from a neighbor
and the wilted plant on my father’s desk.
My droning was tonic alongside your upness,
your downness, your whispery voice. You flexed
your fingers, turned in your shoulder, fastened us
together, a tune unfolding, one line coaxed
after another, silences framed to open out
and let the music breathe.