All these are shock waves
and they disturb my surface,
all bangs and rattles
infusing the gentle soup
surrounding my brain.
Turning rings from wheels from
hoops of silent grammar,
blindfold crawling again and again and
the pinprick gleam of quartz a beacon
toward a rising syntax hidden
lost in the dirty corners of my house,
a falling away of verbs and of action.
These lips and tongue
fold themselves with increased looping
across the boundaries of new vocabulary,
a color emerges from its own new name,
rediscovered correspondence is translated and aligns itself
to order along a still wet alphabet.
In a sun flooded room west of here
I will sit with wooden matches
and scratch each to flame
until the box is empty.