There's music
in the whistle
of the kettle
in the morning

and the sun,
who rises in the
east and gently
whispers
"you must wake up,"

in peeling an
apple and letting
the blade touch
your hand,

music in the restraint of a cut

music
in the slow inhale
when the town
beats you down
hard

and your hands
are holding your
head against
collapsing in
bed again

And there's music
when you put
your head down
in the shower
and the water
feels like fire
and you're drenched
in sweat and nightmares
and the jealousy of days

There's music in collapse
or cadence in you,
anyway.