For Twiglet #218

No Wind

to lift the singing
to carry the tree frog song
to spread spores of music

not rain. or, yes, but rain so fine
it penetrates the source of life
as dreams enter daydreams

not fog. or, yes, but falling
through its rising self, blending
music and umami

 

 

Twiglet 218

Quickly Words

What Love Means for the Dish and the Spoon

At the concert
I could feel the bass man.
Not the rhythm
in my blood. Not
his sweat, his eyes. It was
nothing sensual, sexual, nothing
I could have imagined.

There was a hymn
we sang in church, about the wonder-
working power in the blood.
I never thought
about the ancient, natural religions
and how they grew
from blood splashed on barren rock.

The juke box is vibrating.
You bend to pick up a quarter,
and the bar goes dark. All
sound becomes tiny.
It is as if you had really run away
this time, and run so fast
you left your heart behind
like a bull rider’s dusty hat,
for some clown to rescue.

Are there beings in the universe
for whom time moves not
like a river, but a yo-yo?
And does their god
walk with them, sing and keep them
spinning on a string?