TERMINAL POEMS

The Session Musician

21 / 40 · IV. The Hand

He could hear
a chord change coming
the way a sailor
reads a shift
in the wind.

Forty years
of reading rooms,
of knowing when
to hold back,
when to push,
when the song
needed less of him
and more
of what he left
unsaid.

The producer
sends a link.
We’ve gone
a different direction.

The direction
has no hands.

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