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I am sitting in a cube with headphones on.
I listen for clarity. Not heard if it is there.
A cup of sugar makes sweet fudge
When the door is sealed, and the air is held,
sound travels once in a single wave.
He broke a shoelace that day
Buried in the foam. No echo. The tiniest noise
is felt through skin and shivering hair.
Seven plus two is less than ten
The pencil on a page, a chair that squeaks,
the blood that runs and drums through veins.
Cars and buses stalled in the snow
And the voices, Fifties America: Men, women
deep, high, old, young, crackled, clear,
The hardware store was closed
mundane. Emotion stripped and the words laid bare.
The pictures flashed like a past life real.
He caught his paw in a rusty trap
I can see the fur is ragged and the almond eyes.
The skin rolled up like a sleeve too long.
She sewed the torn coat neatly
There is a delicate thumb around shining steel,
a deft skill fast and tightening thread.
Wood is best for making toys
Spiral grain, the planed off curls.
The sawdust thick like drifted sand.
They picked apples in the morning
Language fires, the shapes of air, the timpani
of sound in the inner ear, the speeding pulse
The sail was bright in the midday sun
that plays this thought,
the wonder of matter that makes
This light