Carpal bones project with a sick joy in feeling small
Wrap your hand around and notice the room within the width
The hold has grown so that contact is no longer necessary to move my feet
no longer analogous to mountains.
More like the wind they shift when summoned.
With the kind of malleability that can only come from being broken,
I must accept that while winds may advance, mountains change their course
I'm called to the pit to play an unfamiliar composition
with an instrument I've never before held
Wrists break under the weight of being a novice
in an orchestra of eyes all too knowing
And I can't make them listen,
Or maybe I can't make myself heard
Because there is a difference.