Barely an octave in,
torn between two signatures.
More familiar, already,
with closed containment.
I’ll miss this refuge where hands are
not made for grasping buckles,
nor shielding faces,
but to finger-step into harmony.
Starting with my dangling toes
the deep pile swirl below
begs to rise in kindness
and swallow me.
As secrets shake the linings
holding breakfast
I concede to the worlds
on which I sit.
After all, what metronome
can train broken digits?