Standing Up Straight

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??))