Few people still talk about the Great Song
sung through bird, bush, claw, fur,
wild flash and flurry, swirl and swoop,
gurgle and gallop, the innocent smile
of a radiant child.
We slip out a crack in the tower
to suck a pure breast;
to climb a tree of skin,
to gurgle at our own feet —
and laughing at a bee
the wild circling begins.
Who are we, really?
A hawk, a fish, a wide-eyed seal
hunting for a flashing school?
listening for an unheard Voice:
blue air, turquoise waters,
flutter, flash and ripple,
schooner dive and sudden dip.
Sometimes this tower’s silence
First floor yellow duckies;
second, rubbers, dicks and beer;
third floor a woman’s opening eyes;
fourth floor a rattle and crib in a tree.
Unheard music in motion…
a child’s blind demands, a woman’s visionary pain.
Everyone’s shadow gets a chance
to create a little torment, to make
a body bleed.
What’s this penetrating my mind?
I won’t fucking buy it… Out shit hawkers!
Spiraling, circling, old monasteries,
sky-diving and cliff climbing,
listening for the Voice.
Fifth floor toys;
sixth spring cleaning;
seventh floor darkness:
big depressions, too many bills,
a sharp knife… and a pill.
Who are we really?
A hawk, a flying beetle, a consumer bomb,
Eighth — a crowd of saviors:
the whole floor’s shining —
we’re circling wider,
wider… like a lost deaf bird.
Night floor — wings fall off.
There is nothing left
but sudden darkness
and the Great Song singing.
A Universe explodes.