Spriteful silences converge from afar toward the nearest here
when now and then a breeze's pouring forth exhales the bellows
of the buried ward. Columned parches of landfill stack farther up
the chimney flutes assembling in the hallways of stone to provide
a coherent pitch of mournful wails as tuned to the forking river
of timing's colossal gears. Dirt sings. Away over here my own ears
perk up to twitch at the faint reverberations emitted, and I swoon
against the buttering wind, gently articulating along the thermal
updrafts of a condescending storm. Weary and nervous, forced
to rise on my own two feet, I tread upon the worn planks nailed
to the earth behind my house in order to find the sanctity of being
swallowed into the inherited cavern of comfort awaiting inside.
These are dangerous times to remain outdoors. The walls and
floors curl over like a closing hand into which I must step,
as if I were intentionally climbing into my own coffin exactly
like I were preparing to enter the porcelain tub for a warm bath.
The torrential winds across these parched mountain ranges
now sound as if they are almost here despite being so far away.
I believe it to be the voices of the stars themselves urging us
all to find our solace in dreams while we sleep our fears off
before the coming of tongues of divine sympathy set to scour
every trace of our having been here off our curved surfacing.
When this chorus of angels sing together, their hymnal will
return rock to space, earth to wind, water to vapor, and blood
to the stars winking out one by one, each feeding off the other
until the silver filaments turn white as strands of wool pulled
out across a loom having woven our story into a new mountain.