Pipe and Strings

The strings of my guitar are E
And A and D and G and B
And E again; at which I stop.
The bottom string is at the top,
That is, the uppermost is low;
They climb in a descending row,
Or else rise upwards as they sink,
Like Baudelaire inspired by drink.
As for the pipe on which I play,
Two fingers and a thumb make A,
Two fingers only make D-flat,
C-sharp, B-double-sharp; and that
Complex, allusive, triple coat
Covers the one, small, bleating note.
A hole half-covered by the thumb
Makes a quaint, squeaking octave
Half A below, half A above,
Like two hands in a single glove.
Harmonies, too, to tightened strings
The lightly resting finger brings;
It halves, in some mysterious mode,
The leap from node to antinode,
Making of F a higher F.
My neighbors, luckily, are deaf.