O at the Edges

Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.

Shakuhachi Blues

That waver,
like the end of a long

dream flickering to wakefulness,
or an origami crane

unfolding between whiskey
poured and the tale of deceit

and a good woman done wrong.
Air flutters through this bamboo

tube, and it seems I control
nothing. Inhaling, I try again.

A simple instrument that will take a lifetime to learn…

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