The dialogue that sound always is
is the tug the here of the orange
plane and its unshot glider behind –
the wind stretched cutting turbine
uprooted and stiff in pallid rocking
skysick sky. Above the health and
punch of sparrows the beery hill and
rooks and the static now flung glider
cut off and. Sky a silence. Often parts
flow: a pool into another and the paper
glider stuck in a dam made by children.
A broken cross, and all that implies:
first and foremost symbol of. (Which
isn’t the same as disquiet) silence. Then
calm, magnanimity, freedom but
the unsilent rough and ruffle of wings
is wind made by speed, and this way
like the flower turbine. Patternless
sky grows millions of fault lines may
be in the eye but are not clouds but
are reflections of earth could be sound.
No comments:
Post a Comment