they say
"absence makes the heart grow fonder"

that sad, beautiful music,
that thrumming in my chest
can only be played
when the heart strings
are taut
and strummed
by the long fingers
of memory

That sad, beautiful music
is heard
somewhere
by an audience
all sick with anticipation
.
.
.
unsoothed by the sound

I hear that music
when you are away
and my only consulations
are the poems that stay
the poems that come
unburdened to my mind

I, audience
holding my breath
gleaming
and the poem goes
and i'm left without enough words
to gum the grips
slack the strings
so the music plays on

a well made poem is a window
or a telephone
or a lifetime somehow pressed and 2-dimensionalized
in a photograph

a well made poem makes a ghost of the poet
of itself
nothing there
but the view beyond the window
the listener/speaker on the end of the line
the eternity contained in an image