she said write of me,
and
                she was immediate as music.

she said write me, write me now
and
                she was that moment when
                a guitar string breaks,
when oh! there’s no way around
but to go, go, go—
                                 and play.

delighted she,
“now i want to play
                           with you,
                                          not a copy.

not
               the breaking banjo string.
               the trilling romance of a mandolin.
               the buzzing bow on a fiddle box.”

amazed then quite wordless my reply,
i took your eyesight for mine, and
brought it to the table.

speechless,
               i loved you not knowing why,
              or even how a heart can love
              crying that it is so very sore
              and unable.