A Rushing in the Ears Unto Death
Susurrus, you fleeting glimpse of dashing ear with salty shake
a sliver of caress and yes. You sideswipe my sense of sound
like the Doppler of a siren passing—pitch inflecting ambulance
grief with more urgency than that rushing blare implies while still.
a sliver of caress and yes. You sideswipe my sense of sound
like the Doppler of a siren passing—pitch inflecting ambulance
grief with more urgency than that rushing blare implies while still.
The tintinnabulation of my grandmother’s chimes intertwined
with my impression of regeneration, spring injecting itself
through every shoot and tree. The way the soul shakes staring
skyward at night beside a lake in the woods, no sirens here,
Just stand and gape at a growing confluence of galactic smears
propinquity to the moon on a vast enough scale, footsteps away
if you close your eyes and stride with a faith like a child knows
the swing will cradle their oscillations and will not buckle
As a cracked and leaking hope—the agonous combatants wield
their sticks and race from teeter-totter to jungle gym, how soft
and impermanent we are, how fragile—yet so warlike, the young soldiers shriek.
The brontide of our souls crashing from dream to sleep to death,
It envelops our final breath, that roar, until at last our view is washed clean.
1/26/12
