My Human Disguise.
I cannot tune a guitar very well
Because I pluck a string and hear three tones,
Not one. My inner ears have extra bones.
My head is a struck and struck again bell,
A tuning fork made of satin and silk,
Vibrating musically like stirred milk.
A real tuning fork makes the air explode
And ring with a slowly diminishing
Volume without ever quite finishing,
An eternal sonic episode.
I tap mine and tighten a tuning post.
At least that note is right. The other strings
Wobble off pitch the way a warbler sings
Or like the humming of a tone-dead ghost.
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