The nearly audible click of snow
on snow, click
of eye contact, tingling
in the scalp that moves
slowly down the neck, sound
heated until it changes
state, tense
liquid in the mouth, cadence
falling on
and on, the breath
colliding with
the pane, inaudible
click of the tongue against
the alveolar ridge, sunlight falling
around a helpless thing.
This is a recording
of rain stopping, power being cut, room
tone you take
outside, release into the trees, silver
leaves
shifting in the dark, the almost
sound when deer look up, small
roots dangling from their mouths,
scattering earth,
ashes, light
scattering the sound
of opening the throat
as if to speak.
I want to make that sound
of setting something down
on paper as opposed to under
glass, ghostly opposition, vowel
of stone fruit
softening, whisper of internal
inflammation, want to praise
the low
grade euphoria produced by making fine
distinctions, click
of tiny differences, bow
drawn across a metal plate
covered with a fine
layer of sand, a nodal pattern, feeling
forms around
the static, crinkling
paper, thin
plastics, nymphs
hatching in
grasses, feeding on grasses, the paper curls
up in flame, attracting
mates. When a near rhyme is lost to slow
changes in pronunciation, a call goes out
for work
to reconstruct it:
love
and move, alterations in
the mouth, play
of colors, friends conduct
experiments in hearing
as: distortion as
music, ocean as traffic, wind in the trees
like overheard
speech. The not yet audible sound of me
clinging to belief
in new senses, making
the softest
possible claim, brushing it against
the grain, taking on a negative
charge so changes might be rung without
waking anybody up.
Sound of pins and needles,
rustle of
of.
