Saturday, June 27, 2015

The blinking number makes for one's entrance
a more fulsome welcome when there's no one
warming house - knowing a voice has spoken
within the room while no ear was there to listen.

Once without a greeting there was the whirr
of one who called for making himself
a window; a rin bowl; a spiraling ear
in which to place your ear; a shadow-someone

wafting above, just above, plains of silence
while an event of wind had poured upon them,
toppling the blades to attain the first-known
speech of grass, as the stare-down light removed

to the western rim, and gave the soft beneficence.
Slow from this emerged a chorus enclosed
like singing in a conch's spiral; a gale
at the back of a cave: union ongoing

of voices faraway, and running before,
always flying and all underlying,
reverberating in the speaker machine;
a loosening, almost-heaven drone

approaching some celestial melody,
enough to cease the rack-cares of deer in the lift
of head's attention; to let out the feline, quickening,
or let in the night spiders from their lairs.

At certain times, similar messages
out of leaves that fall early, fragrant on
bronze lawns; a call from the gravid poplar wave.
Sometimes the road clover. Sometimes the train wail.

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