poem index


Robin Behn

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by this poet

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