Thirty tatami mats

the human ear is a barrier between
us & the world of sound once it’s lost
we have no need to tell the birds
apart in effect eternal sound’s erased

an inverted dome the brain sets in like
a permaculture pond sucks the earth
it can hear your blood & your heart’s
a rising crescendo of compressed air

the syringe of wax stuck inside there
to make plugs that keep the oceans
out sharp pincers ripping a dried glob
cram a cotton bud or ball then gauze

crackle a scab’s drum goes pop release
pressure falls barometers beneath hiss
& spin about no sounds come out lying
flat in the recovery room i felt brittle

eardrums now lanced in a dumb zone
shielding eyes from sounds of a mime
recurring thatched straw piles of mats
slats improbably white rooms hearing

the bright lights i cried out at no-one
listening hearing myself talking inside
while making out that single external
sound a code memory stacked like the

crackle of a soft page at your ear like
thirty tatami mats in the airs around
my head playing snap but i can’t tell
who won—or who pulled to the latch

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