In a rhythm of a breathing
Earth that takes in light,
Returning form, that glows
As prelude to an unknowable
Growth—
The stillness of the Sphinx
Before the unrecorded
Pounce, for the prowl is
Only synapse crackling,
Something to be heard,
Like a soft meow
That says what you desire
And nothing more.
Herr Ear, is there
Some wax of what you hear,
Or is it in the realm
Of the invisible—What we
Have called silence?
The breathing resumes
Without a trace
As the mind continues
Without source
Or destination.
The dense form has lifted away
But still that's all we see,
Albeit waving
Like the frequency
Where it exists
As something living.
You can chase it
Like a cat that flees,
Forever hiding
So that we won't see
It is an image only.
