“There is nothing in this room
for those who have not learned to
sing without thinking, who don’t know
where the music fits in their bodies, how
to smash it open and live it without tearing
the neighbouring muscles. We have nothing
for those startled by their own tone, who can’t
feel it before they breathe in…”
Axiom breath of dead lungs, the calm
bombastic births a delicate cacophony.
Imagine the illusion of incandescence,
mesmeric, effulgence over a chasm.
Juxtapose an artless, xenophobic
greeting, devoid of empathy, with a fire
-fighter holding a child in an old photograph.
How far beneath us is gratitude, dignity
of language, of verbal silk?
Can a knife be neutral in any hand?
Farewell my kaleidoscopic forgiveness,
reality supersedes trust underneath the bruise.
Yonder is the last civilization
in a zoo no one cares to visit.
throat I hear
of leaf or