poet

Robin Behn

by this poet

poem
Inside the hole, where it's yellow, 
the boy has dropped a quarter 
so that the guitar rattles

when he shakes it by the neck. 
Knocks, scrapes, scars. 
So this is what music is.

The wooden body is no longer 
bigger than his body. 
The strings, which, when

he strums them, 
go on forever are forever 
wound