FUGUE IN D MINOR by Del Martin

The still sound of the countryside Splintered by the tattoo of rainfall

And the turning of a lotus bud

From its nest of frog wings.

The spring sound of birds in early morning,

Of butterflies and bee balm,

The wrapped mind and the tinkling flesh.

The powder of pearls and peach down

On a landscape of green satin sheets. The murmur of lips joined

In the crystal promise of summer.

The beetle sound of the pointed storm Sheathed by the tree of my content. For I have listened to the rainbow, I have seen a lover's lullaby.

The shadow sound of the sleeping Fractured by a scream in the night. The volcano vomits into the valley,

The foghorn stretches across the swollen sea, Train wheels whir along iron rails

In extended applause.

The stutter of machine gun bullets,

Tempests of trumpet tongues,

The cast iron buckle of thunder,

A propeller of drumsticks on the ivory gate--

Reeled into an eddy of sound

And curdled in the faucet of my brain.

The grey sound of the dirge,

Of worm-cast and burned bones.

The hush of evening spelled

By the grave note of the serpent

As the skeleton kneels,

The trees drop their leaves--

And the lion purrs.

The muffled sound of twilight Inching into the black of night

And the hollow heart

And the deafened ear.