sifting through a bedridden orchestra


Clock in.
The day burst full of patients and reports, ripping bread and lunch meats, smashing bites between the teeth. The clouds 
outside distend, pregnant with a city’s sorrow
7,000 miles away.

We care for wounded soldiers 
They laugh about a sniper’s miss, 
the number of rumbles, a 50 caliber gun, 
such a heavy cross to bear.

Their lips part, they punch the air with sound, but all that’s flashing in our eyes are 
children sifting through the rubble for the place they once called home. 

Each breath births another child, 
A burned red tremble.
With bandaged stumps they climb upon our shoulders and press down. 
We look each dusted angel in the eye and hold out shaking hands for them to climb up high until it’s time.
Clock out

 We drive, hungry, numb, the weight of 8000 children on our backs. We drive to an orchestra and sit, bedridden in the pews. 

The Magic Flute clocks in.
 Our spirits rush the stage.
We tumble through musicians.
Honeyed fingers tickle strings.
We sit in trumpet’s lap. 
We sift through black tuxedos,
grab the sparkling gowns, 
gawk at each musician’s hands muscled by mistakes, by practice.
 Music from another time flows through us.

Mozart resurrects.

He speaks as a poppy’s petals flutter,
as the little legs of bumblebees struggle to the nectar.

 His sound
strikes loose the stones that dam a heart.
The symphony takes flight.
The clouds weep
The rain falls down.
Our cheeks get wet.
Brother Mozart speaks relief.


—Sol Frye

What Interests Me

what interests me in science is observation,
wistful watching,
languid and lethargic
like plumeria scented 
summer-warm evening air.

considering, with curiosity,
suns called stars
and their radiant offspring
teasing out identity in the dark
in a multitude of mythical 
concocted constellations.

I enjoy the confidential intimacy
of the delinquency of starlight.
knowing, in truth, the light’s a lie. 
that what I currently see
is light unveiled from eons ago 
marvelous spectral disciples 
that travel only outward
tiptoeing into infinity 
at three hundred million meters per second 
with such enviable tenacity 
in artful evasion of connection
to its luminous debut.

leaving me to see
this connect-the-dots celestial tapestry,
dust-embroidered myths 
of gods and goddesses,
objects and beliefs.

folly perhaps
or fairy tale wisdom
to align mythologies
to earthly agonies. 

my solace is to favor 
Joni’s notion from ’69 - 
to be golden, to be stardust
akin to billion-year-old carbon
crafting bargains
with angels or devils 
or whoever cares 
to listen to me grieve
that maybe we are 
just illusions of ecstasy
and what endures is
love, death, and other fantasies.


—Ed Sancious

How to shoo a bird out of a brewery

Find a finch, landed on the chair beside you
its panting signals its fear.
Resist the temptation to close your hands around its rumpled feathers.
You must allow it to fly to the light and bump against the glass.
Say a prayer that it will stay conscious through the hard knocks against the cold windows.
Wait for it to land, still panting on the ground.

Give it space. 

Then, slide forward.
Close off the path back into the darkness of the brewery.

Gently move the chairs, the pillows, out of the corner where the finch has flown to hide.
Reveal the little bird in all its perfect beauty,
still panting, still frantic to hide.

Open the doors to the outside.
Feel the gentle breeze on your skin.
Ask the bird to feel the rustle of air in its feathers.
Allow the bird to flutter against the glass again and again.
Be patient that the bird finds you frightening, when all you want to give it is love.
Place your hands by its side. 
When at last it’s too exhausted, it will let you guide it slowly to the door.

Feel the brush of its little feathers like the fingers of a toddler who grasps at your legs for balance.
Warn the others not to get too close, not to close their hands over the frightened creature.

Let the bird find its way outside,
To the light, to the air, to the wind that lifts it up into the sky,
To the sun that warms our hearts.
Let the bird find its own form of freedom.
That is where your freedom flies.


—Emily Romano