a poem created amid the hurly-burly
Re: What We Call “Quiet”
The shift to lesser noise,
an aural field we find comfortable,
one we are able to “manage” (read – “organize”).
We have thresholds.
A humming machine; her breath;
pat of a moth on the pane;
even traffic. I imagine I hear moon –
cultured consideration of night.
But I’m at a swimming pool,
boy in red shorts, girl in purple,
or that’s how I see it – rippling
blue-silver water and white light.
It’s not that what (or how) I see is –
it constitutes my visual field, as
constituted by my kind of being,
having traversed the paces to here.
These words are just a version –
a May-be: true as I perceive it –
relative by type. It’s different
for the fly and the water, oxygen
and surely less than O. Or beyond.
I heard differently last…
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