Syrinx

And then March came with a whole new sense of proprioception

Well, if it isn’t those unmistakable swirls of golden lenticulars
dancing and warming this cold blue sky —
that could have been made with that brush I borrowed from you.

It’s kind of whimsical how no scene in this memory is about paintings.

Instead, about how I could picture a cylinder beyond lyrics or visual language.
These days have been wandering toward the traction and restriction of the cords —
high-definition, like the one I also borrowed,
or loose, like the dozen misaligned guitars lying untouched against the classroom wall.
So, so sad it shatters me.

That uncomfortably harsh gulp of reality.

It’s Tuesday morning.
I can eat a cannelloni, or I can teach the flute.
I trust the airflow will do its thing.
My curiosity could lead me to orbit your wormhole —
I would very much like that.

The nymph always running and Pan as in "panicking".

But I can’t help but remember
that salmon-pink central cord of mine,
blocked, flooded by that pulsating crimson red —
as I imagine it,
almost a perfect contrast to the grayish deep blue
so remarkably created by the scanning machine.

Where I dreamed about robots.
Where I dove deep under my own skin.
Little did I know it was announcing the season
that would welcome the new me.