Time plays its accordion. Observe its swift keys of bright and dark.

I have to tell you in these recent years I have been labeled: driftwood, spindrift, shrapnel of glass, an ash city after fires. All of which are perhaps apt given every song I had begun to sing became a dirge.

Now when you call me dulcet, I ask, how will you know whose music you are hearing, unless you touch a spine: mine or time's accordion's?