We call it by a name as if there were yolk within the sound
and an umbilical connecting our tongue to the world
When wind teases dreams spilt upon the pavement,
there is no sound as they transform, only movement
and a growing sense that time is the great modifier,
ever reinventing its own composition
(I often sew thoughts to my ears
and watch them billow like poison smoke
drawn from the earth's remains)
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