Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Cold Sweat

A migraine of sound, that splitting
break of elements invisible, vast, diaphanous,
a piercing of the mind by millions
of millimeter needles, oh,
what a fever.

There is a hardness in sound, a solidity.
You know it when it’s gone,
when silence, sweat, fearfulness

crowd out the music of man’s syllables.
You open your eyes in panic’s confession,
and find yourself sitting on a sharp thing
in the dark.