I want to become thin as a flute song
which goes into the delicate inner ear
and coils there, holding in balance the lives
of everyone I love.
It’s late and the furnace goes full blast
filling the room like a good joke.
I read aloud, pausing for rain.
If my pipe were alive
I could not hold it more lovingly.
Soon, I will make green tea
and pray that the flute song I barely hear
is not a signal for dawn
and is not a record, nor an answer
to any questions I might pose it.