Listen. There’s a music in your head
that is not some half-remembered bar
of radio confection. No ear-worm, this.
No broadcast soaked up by the soft
core of childhood. It sits among synapses
as a code of scars, a morse-mapped monument.
This music is made from the friction of living;
birdsong; the passage of light at a certain
time of day; the first touch of another’s skin;
that moment when everything seemed exact.
Built upon pain and plenty, this concentrated
sound is everything you know and understand
tuned up to ecstasy. Written and unwritten
in the key of hope. Yet it is not complete.
Now, having listened, you must sing a tender
approximation of the tune (as sweetly as you can)
until all the people who have helped it build
are drawn to you. Then you must dance.