Five Minutes : Fifteen Seconds
There is no understanding. There is no explanation.
The brace hugs the staff in the body of rain’s fluidity.
The notes fall on the
ground in semibreves.
breaks of withering stems. I am ringed between the line,
we are rinsed between the lines. Strings in conversational bleak
hammer the felt of the air – fray its seams. The ear a fibre of wool.
Capsize. The hollow of a drum.
Drowning is a timbre of sound whose tonal colour is puce.
This is the bleeding of infrasound. Mute the screams of veins running backward.
The caesura of breath is death.