if only I could steal a phrase
between your articulate voice,
a semblance of your rhythm
stretching across the bars

lined up, back to back instead of
backs to the wall, a synchronized
freedom in chronological chaos
would you cover this plagiarism?

the ubiquitous errors clutched
to the diaphragm, altered
inspiration plucked through
these fingers

sever the umbilical cord before
the voices feed off the placenta,
adaptation is written
by more than scientists