End of play

I take out my secondhand FLUTE
to play the fifth piece from my father’s FOLIO.
His cantankerous, expository PROSE
LEACHes from the page, putting me off.     

The Birth of Prose

PROSE, epiphenomenal to writing and records of writing,
LEACHing some of words’ power: words need no longer sing in memory.
FLUTE’s melodic line, soaring, embellished, singular to the mind, vs.
FOLIO, numbered pages, going on, long form, the certainty of an archive replacing song.

The Gift

CLEATus doesn’t like his name, doesn’t like the spelling: both a
CHUNK of unquellable frustration. Yet, there is also his resplendent gift:
SNARE drum, kick drum, he’s a genius of percussion. When his hands are whirling, in
TURBO mode, he takes a kind of flight, borne up by sound, by forging time, by transport, by wonder.

Undoing the cleat

The
SNARE of my soul’s Enemy is a misshaped
CHUNK of metal pinned on one side to me, like a
CLEAT that joins me to him. Praise God for the
TURBO jet power of Jesus Christ to release me!