Still...

This tendered song breaks and splits, parsed

with hope of meaning or at least some meager image

of light or death

or the hint of a harmony.

Does meaning nest quietly

behind the veil?

Resting like the dead beneath the thin soil

and thinner air. Is it

grasped like smoke

or sentiment?

Can it be bound or

fettered, caught and trained

to stand and

expound?

Does it peck at the living,

searching for mites of

consciousness with

its beaks of flame? Or,

is it silent in its sleep,

casting dreams against

the seabed where they rest, stunned,

in wait

of the end of ends?

Sing freely and loud. Or stamp the soil into stone

and press the wind against the flat of your hand;

palm the breeze. Lick at the sky and its blinding

depths. Strike against the blue that hides, or the

darkness that goes and goes.

And maybe, just, you'll hear the sound of

singing. Angels' tongues licking too, Heaven's fists

striking the taught skins of worlds, stamping

as from molds the spirits of man and the tinkling gears

of ethereal animation. Palming meaning into chords

and thoughts that ring,

binding breath with dust or bones.

Being becoming being and

splitting, still.