Animals sense earthquake or storm. They circle
its rhythms with their own. Beyond hearing,
music laps back infinite, keeping its shape
perfectly amorphous.
Were I deaf, I might feel music or
thunder or the ocean shifting and be unable
to discern one from the other. I hope this is true.
So lovely; when things return to themselves
beyond particulars. At one. At Home.
When the false lines of distinction, bleed off;
run together to rainbow through the cleansing
waters beeding across my brow.
In the half light; half lit by moonlight,
I remember his face only borrowed from daytime.
Once removed from day, then again from
time. Used by the night in an undefined
haunting. A blue collar angel pausing near me,
knealing and listening to loose window panes
and neighbors porch chimes.
Through some leaves more than others,
the wind sounds quite cruel.
When it's angry, it gravitates
toward these trees. And so he settles
next to me, or for me,
moving through half asleep. Divided
between his two worlds,
always.
Speaking into my hair; something~something ...
not really to me at all. More so, they're words
about me. A confidance shared into all the scents
and shapes that collude and collide
to inform and create me. His words are not
for hearing. Not
for sought understanding.
Sometimes, besides the background,
there is nothing.
His voice, I sense
as vibration streaming low
and awkward and true, between
the wind and the moon.
It's all memory. Memories that might not
even be mine. Spares. Wandering.
Steamy and righteous and acute.
Just a moment that holds me in limbo while
I'm here, why I'm here, what I hear beyond
the common sounding cluster.
An imposter. A sideline occurence, a reverent
faux paux. A page torn from a book; that may be
the whole story in itself.
