Renatus Harris
What does it mean
to make machines
that compel a
chapel full of
bored children &
wives to stand &
sing, lungs full &
eyes wide. This, too,
is art, how he
carves the wood, he
shapes pipes & keys:
these teeth, the lungs,
the heart. Nesting
dolls, inside this
one, another
artist at his
bench, shaping what
I imagine
can not be played,
but still must be
born & die for
the organ to
breathe its breath in
the solemn dark.
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