(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened) — E.E. Cummings
Laboring-room of the whispers of God, so still —
fixed like a weighted blanket covering my ears being
bathed in the B-flat of matter and space where
the boom of a blackhole still cellos at fifty-six
octaves below middle-C — steadily trickling a deeper
Yes — a resonance that metaphysicians have had some
trouble describing to identify. Yet here I’ll try. You’re a noise
so unworthy of the demeaning of colors — unworthy of
“white” noise or “brown” noise. Some may say you’re
“black” but that would betray the eventual uplifting of your
stare – your enlightening air, and the snuggling within my
innermost ears. You are transparent, as glass – more quiet
than the soil which's played by the fingertips of trees…
I turn to you, though I’m wary of your omnipresence –
so god-like: whose center is everywhere but whose
circumference is nowhere for those who are schooled
in the sound of their breath, in the dialect of stones,
in the drumming of stars. Yours is the magic between
our musical notes, and the final proof between true lovers —