I can still hear

the pencil scratch, filling in

the quarter rest — a squiggle, the extra

underline of eighths,

staffs drawn, every dot, every line

a message to decode.

I want to crawl

inside a quarter note and swim

along the rhythm’s

choppy waves that carry me

to another space with

no body, no people, no instrument,

only current of sound, dance and sway.

The staff my shawl, the melody

a hypnotist, I float away,

pulsing with song.