New Leaves This Color

   Notes liquify me. 

 
  I beg the music
   Won't come
   Searching.

I pour into
  Glossy magazines
              And

 The Glow
Of flickering
Movie screens
[Like a moth to a flame].

        And I always feel
        The same,
        Because I'm too afraid
    To allow my fingers
To trace
     The hems
            Of change. 

   Music stirs the wound.
   I won't stand naked long
   Enough to
           Admit:

           I am a series of notes,
           And treble clefs.
         
           I am cuts,
           And cuts, 

           And rests.