and the silverware hums,
there's a dull rhythm coming
from the buttons on your shirt, and
a steel drum ring of vital circulating.
Feel the stairs jump to meet you
and the air spring under your
feet like moss. Strain for the murmur
in the green, and the low throated
tone of street corners, the whirring
spin of stranger's cogitations,
and when you pass a silent,
inert thing, listen
to the rest.
