We don’t play songs here; we touch them. Like animals mulling over the dead, music is a handling. Listen to the sounds of a touched thing: a body, the pan pipe, the waste garnishing the roads that lead out of Cusco. Tocar is creation. On the bus, two young boys sing Ojos Azules like a couple of tanagers that trill and stir the passengers. I felt something once. A broken reed licked my foot on the slick banks. Ojos azules no llores. Take and cut my soft frame into parts, arrange by size, bind by catgut. No llores ni te enamores. I never sing as a thrush in a natural spasm, but as a ghost of that fit. As a long sigh that brushes the bones. A whisper rolled through the stalks. Llorarás cuando me vaya. To be touched, ultimately, by a sickle— cuando remedio ya no haya— and feel only the wind.