We don’t play songs here; we touch
them. Like animals mulling
over the dead, music is a handling.
Listen to the sounds 
of a touched thing: a body, the pan pipe,
the waste garnishing the roads
that lead out of Cusco. Tocar is creation.
On the bus, two young boys sing
Ojos Azules like a couple of tanagers
that trill and stir the passengers.
I felt something once. A broken reed
licked my foot on the slick banks.

Ojos azules no llores. Take and cut
my soft frame into parts, arrange
by size, bind by catgut. No llores
ni te enamores. I never sing
as a thrush in a natural spasm, 
but as a ghost of that fit. 
As a long sigh that brushes 
the bones. A whisper rolled 
through the stalks. Llorarás 
cuando me vaya.  To be touched, 
        ultimately, by a sickle—
        cuando remedio ya no haya—
        and feel only the wind.
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