if space is spaceless, void,
what keeps matter from inflating it?
the gravity that crushes it all together
where is it's source?
why don't we spill out in its gaping ready mouth
what weaves us secure?
Our bodies so soft they hemorrhage when bare near moons
but what keeps the skin solid? Shouldn't cells squish, stretch,
defy all nature, and spread filling all they can fill,
like the hungry hands of explorers? And if space is formless, utterly emptied,
then should it not be degreeless --
no temperatures, no blinding cold? Or is cold full of independent form?
Perhaps in some other
dimension space is teeming --
a sea of boundless tides --
the amazing spectrum of the rings in thermometers
Then when we breathe, the
warm shatters Technicolor, or burns like the psyche
And the sound, oh the SOUND of breath
could crisscross into somethings
not unlike color,
not unlike liquid, not unlike knives
Out of atmosphere it becomes sound that cannot travel
space says it is so and sucks up the reverberations
into its black holes
and deep nothing wells
so what if sound breaks paired with sound -- so that waves would flow
in ribbons wherever they choose if no other vibration were there to slice it?
The miles might
knot together & I could
whisper to Australia
on the if-day when noise comes collapsing
and silence falls deleting
no lungs compressing, no teeth grinding, no taxis, no sheep,
even the pricks of electricity
bout by the mindless patter in some alien brain;
the murmurs only the deaf can feel
-- all shut out.
and in the sudden, the great void of it all, when
the ringing swells in their ears & clockwork runs soundlessly,
madness strokes them softly, gently . . .
Then could a sigh fluttering from my diaphragm shift the
eye sockets in China?
I could breathe not a word and the world would feel me speak.