Two Strings, one pierced cry. So many ways to imitate The ringing in his ears. He lay on the bunk, mandolin In his arms. Two strings For each note and seventeen Frets; ridged sound Humming beneath calloused Fingertips. There was a needle In his head but nothing Fit through it. Sound quivered Like a rope stretched clear To land, tensed and brimming, A man gurgling air. Two greased strings For each pierced lobe: So is the past forgiven.