She works like other alchemists,
alone in a dark room, eyes
half closed, listening. And if she hears
a chord, it might sound like water
dripping from pipes. Creaking floorboards,
thrumming walls, a distant train. Porcelain
rattling in cupboards. Rhythms take shape,
as if she could touch their contours,
as if a crow’s caw just outside the window
made the living bird beat in her hands.
Pigeons seem to pass through walls at will.
She can sense the tender brush
of wing feathers against her temples.