The honey in your hair mixed
morning’s brew, that old cassette player
held us suspended, above lanes weaved
by another century. I would go back
knowing it was my turn to change the tape,
fix the twist with a pencil.
A trapped soloist sobs out of tune
all this cello noise in a rib cage.
How the world rose grating then,
against a lidless basket of us when
my feet were too flat to resist the draft,
but my hands found you.