EARTHBORNE ONLINE POETRY MAGAZINE
SING ALONG
A song sung by the house dust.
A song to the spider’s laborious thread.
A song in the tread of the emperor’s carriage.
The mother weeping
over dishes in a kitchen melodrama –she hears it, clearly.
The mercenary, cutting thick necks
–he hears it too.
The song of the blue chord.
The song of December transposed into June.
Of the wrong-headed angel.
Music plays on a stone adze.
It slips beneath antarctic waters.
It sits very quietly at the back of a classroom,
counting its glass beads and saints’ knuckles.
Adjusting its badges and straps.
Accumulating dark knowledge.
You see the mind is an instrument.
The soul is a drum and a hand
is pounding on the glassy gates of ecstasy.
You see. The song is singing itself
in a night-stained doorway.
From out of the wheel of your mouth.
A song about razors and cranberries.
A little song about a meteor shower,
about the rise and fall of discordant love.
The one we all sing,
like wind through a combor chorus of doubt.
Beautiful shouting.
