What does the static resounding
from the wound as deep as void mean.
Is it a warning or a muffled yawn
as the open sore gasps for breath.
It must mumble sometimes
to keep itself alive.
I do not know what sustains it.

A rush of talk,
a flight of ideas
I try to decipher
without contextualizing.
Learning to let a thing live
without quantifying it,
without reckoning.

It talks out of turn
like an imaginative child.
There is no bandage
for Chiron’s open thigh.
Only an ear that listens for sense
in his endless oration.





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