What do I hear,
when I hear voices?
Are they mine or yours or someone else’s?
Or are they shells, ghosts, cast off homes,
mistakes of language,
things that were said, but never done.
What a pleasure to watch the wind,
. . . lift then catch the curtain,
and send a curl running across its breadth . . .
So a crab dashes across a rock before a wave.
A seething mind boils, cools
Ideas explode, send a thousand sparks showering . . .
Crust cracked, bleeding molten rock.
Late day sky and coral, turn green, of limes.
.
