by Gideon Burton
A phantom hammering, the drumskin white,
residual with heat. The stinging palms,
blood bright. The ringing ears, the sweaty bright
persistence in the air, though resting calm.
The clap and shimmer, mallet, cymbal, bell.
The evening evened, cadenced into time.
Hot tides of sound that burst, recede, and swell.
The clack and friction buzzing up the spine.
One hears the drumming, then one is the drum.One feels the rush, the rhythm's breaking crunch,
the muscled snap, the surfaces that hum
and shake, compressions tight or loosely bunched.
So primitive, to beat and bob the head.
So primal, thunder raised to free the dead.
Photo: flickr - Miguel Sánchz