I used to be a woodwind

You could play me to the pool of listeners

listening to my hollow or my godspeed

reed breath, an exhalation empty 

of depth perception. Witness the flex 

of intended rests. Arrest the steed 

wending west. Disgorge what comes. Relax 

the play. All day palatial straying 

tone-ward in layman's terms an urn brimming

with warm hosanna stones melodic

as thrones.  I used to be a tube of tone,

a pipe wooden or sterling living 

in measures condoned by conductors.

All rose silver distinct from stone. One breath

apart from the nick of time from 

nicotine. Prime numbers in the hopper 

now let go.