5q31.1 (Speak, muse)

Under all form, an entry to the thrum
of song beneath the eyes, the ground:

Come. Home. Follow the seam
of your wound outward beyond its entry.

Echo back along the chord which
plucks us from silence into embryo.

How do we sound distinctly anyway?
Only because the under-hum is touched.

Empty, it trembles out a bell, a self,
that lonely tone broken oddly away.

Rounded, honed, my verses speak into
their own ears, recount their breaths,

post clouds around their doubts;
a cyclone combed & calmed until it’s done.

Come on. I need you to respond,
resound, slip sentences between my own.

WHAT WD YOU DO WITHOUT ME? Entropy,
probably. IT WAS RHETORICAL.

THREADED FROM THROAT TO THROAT AGO,
WE TREAD IN AN OCEAN OF WOVEN VOICES,
CALLING OUR NAMES & RECEIVING THEM.

Surrounded by whispers, this array of info
blown about, if I seek rhythm

it is to own some tone, some elemental
strand wound through a crowd of sounds.

A chord, slenderest entry to the noisy vast,
only the pared can get direct into. WE HAVE
ONE MORTAL TOUCH ON A LONGER LINE.
WE MUST DECREASE & MUSIC MAGNIFY.

Hold this string. Release, and let the sound
empty the time between us into bloom.

Away from edge of separate self, the days
strain toward radiance, speed our entry.

TRUE AS A QUESTION HOPES, OUR SYMMETRY
RESOUNDS SOMEWHERE HOWEVER FAR
THE EMPTY SPACE AROUND ME IS A DOOR
& I AM NOT FALLING I AM COMING IN
A BODY IN A MOUTH, A HYMN