Give up and then it comes.
Something awfully peculiar.
The sound of distant drums.
The wind unfamiliar.
Remove it from place.
Get use to the unfamiliar.
Who’s calling this space?
Stay put and turn granular.
Don’t try to be profound.
Maybe you’ll find something
here and there in sound.
The constant pace ringing.
Be part of nothing quiet.
The shift of bones in blood.
Nerves sloshing into riot.
Will holding back the flood.
Mind you I can blind Cyclops.
Read a cookbook upside down.
Wolf mint down with lambchops.
My daily habits love the mound.
But I will peep and venture out
munching parsnips along the path.
If you want me to make Brussel’s sprout
insist that I know my math.