Ode to the Shakuhachi

You call till the dead rise
with a flutter of the tongue,
crying & laughing in one note.
Five mouth-holes—four in front
& one in back—you are octaves
cut into a lank of bamboo.
You are more than a tube
the brain tooled to incant
across the maddening abyss,
more than wind through leaves,
or oaths whispered to gods.
“The Sound of Deer Calling
to One Another” says each moan
is a credo begged through reed.
Your mind’s naked weather
blows across the breath holes,
& Basho’s Narrow Road
to the Far North forks into
a familiar footpath.  You say
everything never said before,
& day rises out of blood
the moon left on wet stones.
Listen closely.  Hear every last,
slow, bold, quick sensation
shaken from writhing wood
a heart may fix itself on.
You are a plead prying itself loose,
till there's a wingtip.