Soul, you called it,
and put on a record.
Some funk-blend
of oxygenation,
drumbeats and speed,
black doves, temples, money.
Our guttering in
between: 20 watt clairvoyance.
A decade out, we ripple
into hieroglyphs—
you interrogate my
extravagances with silence.
Sunlight’s lunatic
resplendence tilts into peace.
Iridescent hills we wandered.
I spirit into blackout,
not disbelieved, grieved;
we live-lose daily
in drumbeats, flutes screaming
sharps and flats,
unhinging melody from its derivative.
Reverb those chords.
Lose the spectacular order
scrolling down paper.
from Forest with CastanetsFind more by Diane Mehta at the library
Copyright © 2018 Diane Mehta
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.