Standing Up Straight
We have only just found it
The ear’s drum is an orange
Smooth with wax, dimpled and spongy
With noise, palpitating pulp fists so vicious
But not for bleeding out beyond its zest
Since the flesh, too, hears its longing
And forbearance. My word is me. We
Try, for love, to plot by sound’s plundering,
How a tiny beating naval communicates its
tremors to beauty and understanding, the
orange pulp bursting behind the plump lips
of a child who sits in its mother’s lap, feeling
only the sleek slice of fruit. We are lounging
In fields beneath trees, wondering behind closed
Eyes, and like the bows we block out the sun,
Making homes for others in our arms. I believe
Now that the ear’s drum is an orange giving
up on itself and even for all we do to understand
its whispering, we will truly never understand
why is exists to hear what can never fully be understood.
((PS: This is just a draft, so I have major tweaking still to do, I think. Opinions??))
