Clothespins

The old sepia-tone brownie

We'd rejoice in our skin tags,

Remember?

Violins spewing the grace of evenings

Under the dried sheets of clothespins.

The freeze, the blame, all those

Hidden emotions

As it dips and pulls

The sun a gunshot to the head

Coagulated into the background

Do you feel that tacky sensation,

The needles in your cuticles?

The lucent mind tending to the trees

Each note under the dried sheets

Under the stained sheets of clothespins.