The tune you can't shake off
is the thin edge of a shim
that shatters the fine blue
of what's left of your evening.
Outside the flash of fiddle
and flute, a fissure slides
inside the lyric, a taut resolve
to mimic the minor key of loss.
You can lean as far into
this maddening symmetry
of encores as your lowering
bucket will slide, but on the bottom
end you may find a Möbius
progression of memories.
A broken 45.
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