Nine.

The interval punches me
Into the air, aloft of
A punctuated wave
Aloud in wide formation
This spike stretches out as
An albatross wingspan
Bearing me aloft on a bright red harmony

I cannot let them
Become static
I cannot have them
Anywhere else
I'm in no position to contradict
My own auditory tenants

The distance between the
Two tones
Is large enough to fit
My heart in
But the chord snaps shut
And by the minor or the majority
Or the glorious number seven
And the sweet discord
I am a bleeding heart for this

The arm that hammers in the bass
Pushes my synapse
Is the same with blood running down to the fingertips