is a turn away from the board and the silence after a cymbal’s crash.
It is passed among the branches of the tallest trees, echoed by the darkened floor.
The air allows it to reverb through the clouds, and at this the blood in our veins
changes direction again. How long until the world becomes bored and spins once more,
idle in our absence? Spin, Earth, spin me round the stars and let me string my thread
through the planets, spin me away to admire my latticework.
A stillness that lasts no longer than death. When will the forest horn come calling again?
Shall my ears fuse shut, leave me to the mercy of the soil, he who knows abandonment well
and who may imprison me unfeelingly. It is not so bad to allow the ringing
to bounce in my head, one pole to another, and never draw it out. None but a terrible siphon
could accomplish this, either. And so- it is my ears that bleed, staunched by phantom cotton,
practiced into concealment and ignored away.
Another of the clouds of mist, raise a wail over the fuzz of silence and strike through. They only
make the sweet singing of the mockingbird harder to hear,
as far and lost as the lonely rings of Saturn, suspended among the night sky.
Oh well, before the storm comes silence, after all. One last chance for the thunder to ready its
charge for the striking, for the slice of the bolt of lightning.
Here, the rain you’ve railed, the hail that shatters! onto the edge of the platform. Have I felt the
cycle before, felt the crests of the great wave and been brought into its troughs soon after? Akin
to asking if I’d even been sent into the ocean in the first place. Akin to asking
to see the ridges of the conch, and the rivulets of the tide. In a word,
wait for the next one.
Don't look too deep into the title, it's just the name of this one.