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Among many tongues may clang
the bell of ten thousand names.
A clepsydra with veins of blood.
A caravel on a tide of bloodletting
is also our necessary clock, so
the he who is I at the
time lets out my elephantine toll.
Vein of granite, vein of quartz.
Piezoelectric hum wherefore
we cast a tiny ear of water, we
who clang and unmoor our fleet.
Copyright © 2015 by Chris Martin. Used with permission of the author.
All that happens happens
in the hollow
mouth
open mid-vow
knowing
only song will do
what an empty cave needs
done, drone
that seeds to fill
one space and then that
space’s space, what
are we made
of if
not chants.
Sun slumping up
the stucco, cat chewing
her tail clean, nimbi
darkening the fallen
leaves leatherlike, I make
voice, voice, voice, voices
like a fist
I was out interviewing clouds amassing the notes of a sky pornographer while patches of the city subnormalized by fear of fear like a reef bleaching closed I took to the streets looking for a human velocity feeling disequilibrium heavy in the abundance of summer light the si
for Ben Estes
So taste as day rearranges the red and orange flowers from tongue to tongue like losing the cymbal's clang for all its glints we crept behind the moon which always insists on sleeping over barely a belly for a mouth an hour past the movie we were still filming the way food fills each curving lapse between your teeth or song in sheets against the windshield no one believes air is the enemy so don't be afraid to breathe all this speech someone already died to say the moon is on the couch so we climb onto the roof where our bellies swell ope