Forgive my verdant embouchure, timidly practised in dark alleys,
and guide my fingers through respite in somewhat hurried pizzicato.
There is no shame in apposition set off by commas, casually,
where every onomatopoeia could lead to spasm, but not staccato.
And when we leave the treble clef, the pilcrow binds all the untold,
giving us little more than what one calls tinnitus, till next time…
hidden pilcrow 