if a guitar isn’t a wooden man
than what am I plucking
strumming with an open hand
a box full of noise
geometry of necks and nuts
and bridges
strung so tightly
the wood buckles
if a baby speaks to a guitar
with the same courtesy
as nylon yields
to calloused fingers
can wide eyes dancing in the baroque
fashion apologize for
animating this still-life
with his glossy grapes
I like this
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