Finding the Groove

The ear opens and shuts
like an awning. Each of its little bones

has a name. No, not hammer, anvil, stirrup.
Names like the hope poured on a child’s head

as she emerges, pushing with her elbows
through the tunnel, swimming against the current

of the upside-down world.
What are the chances of landing

straight in the lap of florescence?
Don’t look now. Listen

as hard as you can especially when
the blood rushes through your head.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Dusk and Rebecca Horn: Concert for Anarchy.

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