And here's the poem in plaintext for those who prefer it that way:

Chord

Grief hums constantly
like cicadas.
It's silt clogging
the storm drains.
It's a bad penny
landing same side up.

Grief says
the poem ends here.

And still
there are cornflowers
amidst the froth
of Queen Anne's Lace,
the moon peeking
through cotton candy clouds,
your voice in my ear.

Give the penny away.
Dredge the streambed clear.
Take up your instrument
and turn the doleful hum
into a chord.