That string in me scraped by beauty’s brass pick –
callused fingers stop and slide a ratio of threadbare
blues wringing tears in time past measure.
That string in me plucked by beauty’s tortoise-shell pick –
hypotenuse of wabi-sabi and to-kalon singing all things
perfect, and perfect in their imperfection.
That string in me strummed by beauty’s green nylon pick –
my body the tuning fork, gut-feeling every hum and shiver
arms akimbo, curled line of my waist opposite that angle and
you, the resonator.