there are cobwebs in my head
and dragons round my thighs.  you
are a conductor and the music is
too loud, decibels fluctuating
out my neck.  what
makes this real, so that it should
dismember every last ligament,
one by
one
by one?

a sea-tossed orchestra and a salad of bad timing, the water is blurring
the music sheet and you stare at me, baton high above the
waves this is my
feeble attempt at playing the
cello but there are
cobwebs in my head and
dragons round my thighs.