Breaking what it needs, digestion,
the nourishment process could be a good model.
So on doors, I pluck for sound and out
of varying instruments, blender, mouth of bronze idol on mantle.
Mouth, color, interpret, vandalize.
And the others fussing, bury the sound.
They, too, are waiting.
The pitch is a con, the con a cave that begs an entrance.
To discern the soul, there'd be a river in it.
But by it the bank a shouter, shouting out sheet music
the chirp to wind.
The shouter with mouth of blade marking a target.
Given everything the give forms our lips,
it's only the shape of zero.
Giving in, giving up, down, over, over.
What can hands bring in?
What has no edge, it cannot visit.
With vigil, I see outlines are only choices made by eyes.
Like a river stepped in by mistake,
I think, to take you in.