It’s not about dropping words like stones down wells,
Listening to the clanks and clunks ricochet off the walls
As you hover near the edge, pleased with your senseless noise-making.
It’s about dropping yourself down the well.
It’s about human skin against stone –
That warm slap that wakens the blood
And can be heard for miles.
It’s about getting inside, you know?
Crawling into the English language
Like a wounded animal and
Curling up beside its pounding heart.
That’s the music.
The steady thump, thump of it going on
In its endless monologue.
You sync your words with the swelling of its lungs
And hope they sound like keys of an accordion
Breathing in dust and bellowing out clouds.
The beast at the bottom of the well
Has never bared its teeth at me.
At night I bury myself in its fur and
We move as one – a slow,
Steady intake of breath.
In the dark, when it’s hardest to tell
Poet from beast,
I can almost convince myself
We’re of the same body.