Curation (of sound) Remix

CURATION (OF SPRING SOUND) --alternate

Listening, standing still,

neurons are on fire, all or nothing, eyes fixed

on some coriaceous juncture

of earth and leaf

and tree,

a slow syllable

their language something to hang a hammock upon,

to repose between their words.

Neurons mirror their pause.

Cura Cura hee Sha hee

sha

sha

wind in the elms, in the grandfather pines

The marsh beyond

ss ha ss ha

ss ha hoo shu

hoo shu

An oyster, its shell cupping the gradual wash

of tide over the mud it is buried in.

Oh ha

oh ha

oh ha

The voice of a star uncurling its gases,

Ss

long silence between

Ss

snaking out from its hazy corona

of hydrogen atoms splitting apart.

Ah Sss, Ah Sss, Ah Sss, not a snake

but gas slipping out of gravity.

A muted push of force,

a wooden blade

wuffling as a samurai swings his practice sword

under the bow of a paper lantern tree.

Ah ha

Ah ha

breath

breath

breath

*

And of a small town?

Squeaking signs,

Squea-hah, squea-hah.

It wears its heart on it sleeve.

As if there was any other choice in the matter?

As if the sun would shine in any other fashion?

Mr So and So watering his lawn,

cha cha cha cha cha,

the slough of brooms, rish rash rhsh

the rat-tat-tattings of kitchen cutting boards,

sunny apples smacking back and forth,

the wet sluck of a oyster knife cutting into the fat muscle,

the smacking garlic and the leather lemon

squeaking across front teeth at dinner.

To be the short Ah

or the long swinging J

the short irs of birds in high pine nests,

so say rushes and reeds and evercalls.

so say the shas, the shi sha, shi sha of spring trees

thrashing in tall wind,

the tall wind that tells the peach tree

and brown earth pushed up against the trunk

to hurry up.

I could ask the same of you.

Let sound come to you.

Let them carry a note on the wind, let them

carry a word if they can. Let them carry the language

of a wave over the mud in a shell through high winds to you.