Some players cannot bear
finger picks between the soft
pluck and the resonating
string. Tips wear blisters, dance
liquid sacrifice over fretboard, caressing
warm bronze, never scraping or buzzing
angel breath from triads. I dodge
the sound man's slings, duck
thumb picker's arrows. They would hoist
shields—bright clang of metal
on metal. Wounded digits sense
their way to truth. Daredevils inching
over taut steel.
They feel the way,
never looking down.