pitchless

sleep cut out untidy, you've
named your shop after your loss.
you call it that, your shop,
shelves of yearning and fret, no

stocktakes. addiction, smouldering
off his tongue, slick on ear,
so addictive. you in your
12 bar hubris, all too
hooked on the lean of seventh
chords, folding semitones.

the only money in sadness
is strummed. from beyond
the fence, your voice and
one crow, pitchless