Saturday, May 2, 2015


so much we don't hear
the riff of a morning bird, silly by his forgetful tunes
like a warning, to the unprepared generation
anticipating nothing but a flood of sand
there would be rain of particles and dust and storm
to overcome, to crush, to submerge all the senses

these are the little things we don't hear
catching us at a grip, the conversation of the stars
with the eternal moon, sick with envy of daylight
there will be several hours to lack competition
while the rest of the world sleeps

these are the little things we don't hear,
the sound of the gargle, of the river
there's enough fish for the prolonging of the swim
how everything bends for water, respecting its ability
to carve its way into the deepest of valleys, and giving them
their name

so much we don't hear,
the tone of the universe, the little things
mother's voice when it comes like the waking of sparrows
Music when it hits you, leaving you speechless
while you catch the subway to work
each morning.

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