The Brass Eidolon

Where tempered steel meets brass, a sudden chill, Each pick, a question parsed in tension’s grip, As BOK and TOK, their subtle dance refine— The pins await our touch, precise, then yield. No gaudy tools — just Sparrows, cold and pure, In calfskin rest, each edge with secrets kept; Through paracentric paths, a false set known, As stacks resist in binding’s silent yoke. With tactile clicks, the hidden truths now speak, Their counter-turns — a cipher whispered low, As spools and mushrooms falter, scraped and spun, Through patient pulse, the picker, picked apart. For every bond, like tumblers once withdrawn, Leaves fingers poised—adept, yet grasping air.

M. Giardina, 2025

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