The Listening

The thin chime plays
with the wind’s prayer,
the vocables of alloy tusseling
with whispers of storms
with sayings of fluted forms,
nothing more
than a vitreous fountain
pouring within itself.

Water has no mouth
but slips in glassy chortle
sipped by moss and stone,
its clarity as it falls
draws the spirit
to where an ear might be
and the soothing sound
smooths a basin in the flesh,

an edgeless carving
like involutions released in air
in search of listening.


(c) Seth Grube