27 April 2014

talk about it (27)

talk about it, the splendor

Never the language always the rhythm.
Always the beat, the song, the blood’s pulse,
the finger running, thrumming, toe knock knock
knocking against the seat in front, would
you stop, would you just stop. Ever
the nodding, catching the tune, sipping
the melody out of the jazz, sucking
the jazz out of the lyric, hearing
the joke in the shift in the lilt, ready
to laugh at it, ready to cry about it, hard,
heavy sobs, breath lost, sob muscles
essing the body. Never the words, or hardly
ever the words, because here come the waves,
the mountains, here the view of the bounce,
green in all directions and dun and pearl
and undulating marble mounding, squeezing
that space inside, mounting and
again then pushing it out, out, heaving,
hefting, helling, heavening. Again.