What is sweeping
through our
world
like a song?

What uses
our strings
and our valves
and our sounding
surfaces to throb
to thrum

It isn't today

What aims this
salted cleaver

you swing in time
with the base line

chopped ham evenings
unsalted mornings
a gap in my frontier

I wonder at what works
and for how long
the tradeoffs

Individuals pay for time
friction collects itself
a trophy
of far to go

Swirling eddies obscure
the depth of needed relaxation
lie down time
and smother its breathing

under which sleepiness
and other common notes
pluck life like soggy dogs
barking and shaking dry

It doesn't say does it

Waves of us
being particular
shaking us dry
converge on a wire

maybe the
whole stack
has to be
of play

and u
a funny
song
ster

Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis