In the sad hum of one harmonica,

I can never get so low
where dogs go blind
and lose their hair
and start to smell
only so old…

I can never get so high
on such a smell,
the lowest of the valley
with its ruins smiling
so high
like classical art
about to fall from
a cliff…

And that far-reaching
rock-bottom approaches.
I run because
I fear
the ivory heart of music,
Hemingway and Spain.