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.