The Song’s Page

I celebrate
the four corners
of a song’s page.
It holds:
A tattooed blood and
pain of notes,
a hot coal’s
ashing over
in a dolorous tempo,
a bumblebee
dead in the flower,
pollinating to the end, d.c. al fine,
and you, singing the song
In ultraviolet minor.
I am listening,
In the page.
I am leaning
on its staff.
1-2-3-4
1-2-3-4
A fete
a door,
Flung open
For all to play.