Some days I feel like a pause

in a kitchen, alone with the lost keys

always in the last place I’ll look—

a fermata, small earth settled in an eyebrow

curving soft as my hipbone and stretching

until the hidden musician decides

stop—small signal, calm

of rest, weight in the score

to remember what song

came before. Indecision

of hooked eye, geometry of sound,

the half moon of my fingernail pulled across

a freckle on your back.