Melodic worm,
A minor turn, lost,
I breathed and that breath
Was sharp with it . . . gone,
Gone.  Some note, some o
Crept into my blood—

I was twenty then, locked
Into razors and guns and the love of death,
An inmate in a night house.
A man played for us, softly,
Softly he did not disturb us

Except the note he lost.
His fingers so sure, his soul all sane,
But he knew that we were danger,
And broke one out for us,

And marked our hearts
With a music, lost.