Orchestra

As we aim to silence the pain
which we are fairly allotted
by birth-right

a deafening calm consumes us
while focused on the pleasures
overdue to us
in the treble.

Signals cease to lift
the alarm lever,
if we don't
move
our lips

to speak
to the self
in the language of the body.

Before translation
the strangeness deters our curiosity
about how one thing may become another
and make melodies
by note, by color, by shade, by immersion,

there is understanding
needs to be met
and lyrics to listen to
while we move

this way and that
away from where it hurts most
toward what we know
says nothing
about us.



Painting by Wilhelm Carl August Zimmer (1853-1937) / Public domain.

Minute drops

The first train blares its horn
ripping thru the quiet town
at five:eighteen
in lieu of the alarm clock
that ran slow-
it goes to show...

Kicking up dust and sand,
it may take some time
for the eyes to adjust
to light rays
lasering the pupil
shrinks as day
cracks the ceiling
wide open.

It smells distinctly like rain
that none saw coming
since there were no puddles
to prove it.

Tho the tracks
were both still
warm to the touch,
and the mist counts
as precipitation.

It adds up over time,
and passes the miles.
Blurring the light infinitesimal
strewn across space
in broad strokes.
Time keeps losing its place
on the train of thought,
while the whistle blows
such primitive perceptions
as these right
outside the window.

Crystal beads streak
backwards behind the ears
as memories
dew
condense and transport us
while wide awake
but a little late.


Painting by J. M. W. Turner, pre 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.