The treble since leaving; the screech of engines,
mechanical lungs, cymbal, drum, slice of sliding door,
the meddle of straight lines chiselling space
around expansive curves.
No cello; slime,
billboards, neon signs.
Lip-curled rebel graffiti stretching sights up and over
the nape of walls lining up with reasons.
Graffiti shouts down at hammer feet, guests
on tarmac; shuffling, ducking, diving;
the busy-ness of heading somewhere - and still,
how infinite seems the small space of quiet within,
silence swells to send a symphony hurtling faraway,
in search of space; for time to expand that view,
graffiti these walls, cello horsehair on the string,
pull a note to carry - quietly, in sleep,
a dream sonata on electric folds of silk; in a nap,
bow lightly over skin, and in the calm,
after rondo folds of silk, again, a still point.
A serenade home, where a bell rings
along the shoreline where I would like to be,
when hands wrap metronome around desire,
in the silent hum where I am home, in moments
so peaceful with you.
