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RHYME
Air an instrument of the tongue,The tongue an instrumentOf the body, the bodyAn instrument of spirit,The spirit a being of the air.A bird the medium of its song.A song a world, a containmentLike a hotel room, readyFor us guests who inheritOur compartment of time there.In the Cornell box, amongEphemera as its element,The preserved bird—a studyIn spontaneous elegy, the parrotArt, mortal in its cornered sphere.The room a stanza rungIn a laddered filamentClambered by all the unsteadyChambered voices that share it,Each reciting
I too was here—
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In a room, a rhyme, a song.In the box, in books: each elementAn instrument, the bodyStill straining to parrotThe spirit, a being of air.
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tawingfield

I love that last one! Need to try it myself!

reply04 / 16 / 2011
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