I.
Remember then
the day of spit and lightning spun like
lace between the stars or clouds or ever else that
sat at night straight-up there.
How we poured liquidly like notes graced straight off of
necks, warmwinded into autumns:
arpeggiated grace, all grace,
treble and bass brought
brashly to the bottom of our Wounded Year.
And how we fell downward downward
patpatpat on the cobblestones and,
having not once mistoned or touched together in the air,
could gleefully break like the silences of stormless
winters upon rough kissing of those stones.
And how we, never out of the eyes of
moons for long,
were then called to dance as daisies in the wind:
beautifully,
in a helpless sort of way.
II.
And now, the naming of sounds.
The plucked or strummed notes,
drowned or hammered-dumb ones dangling like
dew-fume moisture in the everdark. Call it
rain dissolved by spark. Name it
spit.
And the one off loft of kettle drums off-kilt and
beatless in bearded night times; shock and cough of
godlight ragged-craning like a damaged throat. Call it
sound dissolved in heat. Name it
lightning
or anything.
Name it needlessly or freely as you
see these things.
Our naming of sounds: the
visceral dissolved
in the cerebral.