The Idea, not the Name
This dust clustering between the coils
of steel and air, pulled off with the thrumming
by padded acacia, velvet, sturdy, strike
the five-sevenths point, and a nebula in
oil painted sunlight shifts to nothing if not
music. The wood strains its long cells
locked together under finger-weight, under
tusk and bone, until its dense anatomy,
again, higher, shakes, intense in the silence
of every other sound that insists on not
not being heard, as a single drop of paint
makes whiteness burn. The mind
strains through nerve to effect its soul,
bending heaviness to purpose, solidity
to vibration, and reality to meaning.
