I try to conceive what
makes the whooshing sound
in metres of music, words as
they escape boundaries of book
to fly from page to mind,
the hush of flowers
opening, undamaged
every morning on the sill,
the spider's nail strumming
through her velvet threads,
the victim's breath she steals.
Everything has a pitch, even
nothing-ness. Capsules of shell,
the enormous rooms of night,
unseen tunnels of wind,
the dark, deep, wells of sea -
its vacant echoing.
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