I know that all voice is metal,
cutting blade
until the tongue softens its edge,
and in saying this, I seem to
only know of auditory
things — what else is there?
To see is to allude, in suggestion
I know the colors crawl,
but to speak is to make sense
of veins in rock, of
lustrous ore, not yet formed,
to break the leaf of
indeterminate ingot and
weave gold from its bedlam.
What else is there but crushing
noise, those atoms in their
offended chase,
that we, in a feat of muscle
and stringy vibration,
master?

© 2017 Stellular Scribe