I am listening for a silent sound
beyond this world, and our time,
and the limits of our selves;
before we needed words
to give shape to what
we think is real.
It is not a note in a language we already know -
Bb or A#
or the tonic C,
from which everything seems
to begin and return.
It existed first...It exists beyond.
At the centre of the Sphere,
a dark space oscillates...
Is that Silence?
...or some infinite harmonic,
which does not sound like sound
but a deep and distant thrum
calling us imperceptibly
in eternal return…
The heart-space aches.
Deep in a dark crater made
where Love – that fox! – once hunkered down,
scarred obsidian seisms now
the dry unpleasurable frequencies of grief.
No, mine is not some holy font,
spilling its healing
over the fractures and fissures of the self.
It is all ash and igneous impenetrability.
In a certain light, it glitters –
black ameythst blown wide,
a small cathedral of hurts and brilliant edges.
And, in the haze of a sometimes sunstream,
a butterfly may flutter down a shaft,
but sensing stone-cold permanence,
will not stay long
and beat its way back