Playthings

have you listened
to his last
song—we now
grow granite in
our mouths, a
full year the
habit of
a highway, have
you lived
in a piano before
or had sex
over a loudspeaker?—ask
this rain
if she has
a director.
the playthings
in a red blood
cell of a
blue band, the pleated
skirt of
a river in
her magic months
—a chessboard
music is insane
when he doesn’t
touch the queen