And yet he sits, skin taut and thin,
the color of pale-bleached bone,
with a shoulder cocked upwards, rising as a glacier capped peak
From the twisted dark, moist valley of clothes.
Wispy clouds of fingers strum on the stringless
Guitar, cradled as life.
But its silence is discord,
The impalpable strings out of tune.

And yet he plays, as his stony chin crumbles to his chest,
Eyes half-lidded, somehow seeing beyond
Fingers gliding in air,
Dancing,
but slowly,
caught in ritardando
Nearing the end of his soundless song.