Rivulet rounds of triumphal, orchestral sounds
swirling, leaving air thickened, weightless -
these players and callers of time and timbre, balancingand nuancing the very grain of my ear-drone. Distance
becomes a kind of texture; movement softer, and
silent like the echo-surge of the hide and seek
children of my brain. A silken chafe of thosequiet things we swallowed too swiftly with talk.
In the bodied, fibrous hum of cellos arrayed against
the flatter crackle of the horns, I am calling to me
your messages and listening for my ways of reading -stringing limp lines from a memory disembodied now:
All too delicate, they weave my themes in leaves
shaken and released by shadowed thoughts in unlit
rooms alone; rhymes to drape in lines half-hurledto catch the light cast by this chorus-throne.
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