if you had asked me if i ever spoke
in country lyrics, i would have denied it,
proudly pointing to the legacy of pindar
and keats. but deep down, i know
that i envy your little week;
your sorrows and delights;
your passions and your spites;
your glory and your shame;
and that there is hardly anything
i could say that you do not already know.
but guessing your day from the creak
of the upstairs floor, all i can muster
is the rustle of a page as it flips.
hidden pilcrow 
I can almost hear it … the twang in your voice.
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