by Gideon Burton
My new compulsions, splines along the wet
enamels chinked with squares of rust. The bells
like scabbards rattled by the tongues we set,
a bolt of ringing muscle, firming, swells
the consequence. And yet the skin of drums
grows supple, bending to the water’s thrum,
the wake of resonance both red and dumb
and anywhere more wordless, silence spun
of coffee pot tableaux, a pear or two,
a cloth crocheted to link a web of holes
against the varnish, buffed and glowing through
the murky crags that clog the cooling shoals
along the banks that edge the yellow sky,
so well machined the tides both sing and sigh.
Photo: flickr - morgantj
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