Hiding quiet
in the
shade
of this
guitar
are
sounds
never
played
never
been
sung
never
been taught
never been lonely
never been caught
When the wood has worn
away, still hiding in the air . . .
What chart is yet to be unrolled?
What rough music will unfold?

not for love not for hire
not for time not for fire

When we call them by their names
they hear but they won’t come out . . .

Maybe there’s not so many to be found
maybe inside there’s just one sound . . .

in this guitar one’s a lot It’s all we need
and it’s all we got Every guitar
in the world, I hear, is
just like this