At low of night she strokes
Familiar tastes exquisite,
And quietly invokes
The spirit of laureate --
An orphic instrument
Unfit to take for granted.
It’s profound atonement
Stirs in her heart despondent.
Her fragile shell’s embrace
Of wood and gut and metal
Point out her shallow race
And weakness fundamental.
Yet all the night she moils,
Mistrusting augmentation,
And secretly despoils
The overzealous beacon.
-- Kerry Herrmann