listen, songs want to be sung, to have fleshly voices sheathe their ethereal content
so they feel like hybrid galas ripening, like the angels found in old books, museums, wounded and adored
carried by the children we are, with haunted eyes forgetting hunger, they pinch white flowers, are carried and become weightless.
we inherit their gravity. the lights in the playground go out. sleep haunts the room.
is this where the need to breathe comes from? without your pain sound has no taxonomy, cannot calculate its tax returns. what colour are the birds you smuggle in your chest?
since you answer tides, you contain nimbuses, and squalls have hard edges too. if they cut enough silk weather happens. habit is rhythm. the habitat it occupies translates as time.
who ordered the radio repaired by heart surgeons?
the perch is equal to the burden of water. so is the trout. lovers who drown in two skies are reborn as finches. fog is lifting from the crimson plains.
we are furrow. we are the worn path. so unmoor your throat, swan-eagle, take in the shaft of light. become a field where frequencies nest.
we are ecology. we will die as laughter. the wind will find our ribcages and remember when to stop.