The slow creaking of planets
overhead. Orange pits,
smashed nails and nickels
Doris used to want a single
cornet, but now she wants full orchestra.
She wants an aviary of calling birds
the color of apples and oranges.
Tonight, under the pitted planets,
each note dropped a thread for her.
She wrapped them around her fingers
to keep herself here on the ground.
She'd almost grown tired of the music:
the cello's throat, beak of the oboe
on and on.