I have a minute to sing,
that is to say,
to open the mouth and exhale sound,
or, one could say, to release
a melody-scented breeze,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
one could say,
to extract from the lungs
a billow of rhythm,
or even more wildly poematic,
to secrete from the lips
a blossom of chords,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
radiating threads of harmony
from the oval aperture.

And I’ll sing of the sand,
that is to say,
of the minuscule shining cells,
or, one could say, of the worn
establishment of rocks,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
once could say,
of Blake’s innumerable worlds,
or even more wildly poematic,
of time’s corrugated vestige,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
soft volumes of exhausted earth.

But I only have a minute to sing, so I sing a simple song of sand.

Contemporary Poetry