V.45

The guitar is a universe
that grows in the air. It is here
in the park, in the trees raptness
to the wind. It is in the move

beneath us, of the dirt and stone
bassline. The voice also becomes
a timeless concept, borne with time
when space itself became vocal

and elements harmonised from
the raw newness which was pouring
from the gaps between strings. A voice
of violin becomes a strain

of primitive object in the
clearing between trees. I claim this
origin of tones to be so
essential as to be veinlike.

You cannot take it from us and
leave us with eyes. The grass has bent
under thousands of intentions –
each competing for the title

of the most complex object in
the real. And each most beautiful.
Nutrients flow in paths that forge
bright thoughts and so I am heavy

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