Navigation by Sound

At the grocery store, I've seen birds quicken through
the low rafters, fly above hills of misted vegetables. 

When light comes through the blinds or through 
a fan of glass set into the door, the old urge 

to name it otherworldly hangs in the air. What can't
be metered and weighed, split and parceled, must come

from the same remote country as rain and fog—
I want to wrap my hands and throat in it, breathe it in

like the amber-tipped dust pushed out the sound
hole of a string instrument; I'd hold it out to you like a first 

slice of bread in the morning. I wrote to say I found the hair 
wash you wanted, but didn't hear back. I am unconsoled 

by the thought that it isn't sound but the memory of sound 
a body turns to, as it tries to make its way ahead of itself.

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