#76

The sound of sun, diagonal, upon reading chair and carpet. That poem I wrote, "Curtain Lecture." Words? Music? No: it's what's behind. Subjective tinnitus, here and there, between. Bed-ridden cup of coffee steaming. A glass of wine, pitched high and sparkling in lamplight. A wave hello, goodbye, the crests and valleys again, again, again, like the scene in a slanted mirror.

And avidly pursuing. My tongue that maunders from lips to ear, and says... In darkness, rain. The Klanglink of radiator. One hand on another, down. The soft sounds of head on pillow, blankets pulled or thrown, and breath as it quickens then breaks. There might be many objects circumscribed, each a single speaker singing. But the silence at their center loudest. There might be a rhythm to the train of touching, but catch it like a synaesthesia, schizophonia. Record it with the swell of lungs.

Tinnitus, yes. The words of Steve Harley. Lryics for the action man. Raise the bar. Listen. Tinny February, thick July: I want to know how you sound.