Vulture Bone FluteGranier, Mark
Fitting to see the oldest airs
salvaged from a raptor the air
of its wing and there is music
in our bodies, drums and strings,
wind instruments fulfilling themselves
so blood and sweat sings
to surfaces, half-blinding those eyes
lost in the swing of a scythe,
a notched sword, the haulage
of hominid arms through foliage
music that runs like sap
back to the root
of our species jogging on the spot
wired to an iPhone chants, field hollers,
deafening wars, silences the body
bearing the mind away
with riffs, keys, tones, variations
on whats in us and what will come
to blow through our bones.
Copyright © Mark Granier 2017 |
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