Voices of the Leaves

it’s raining
outside down upon the inside
to create a point of enclosure
and as it does so
the vibration of this procedure
is felt in thunder

and known
from the sky-lion
who looks at us from
the side of the jar we are
the containment-becoming-within, as

jam-packed falls of cloud-filled water
infuses us
into generator response time, we
less hostile and
like lavender inhale
with a bit more ease, with

each falling
out opiate-sensational-disguises, the masks
we were slammed with at birth,
begin to lose weight, and clank—
fall to the floor, it’s


the face behind the face of the person next to you, but
at this point it’s only a voice, an
echo building distant tunnels into the present and as these
corridors of sound with their architecture of ancient Greek and Roman similarities, take
up the bulk of the space between—
we hear feet running—horses trotting, we hear
people dying in anguish, O

look through the jar,
there is a volcanoes
something we can do nothing about, eye
of a phenomenal-display of light twinkles at it us, we
know the helicopter outside is all part of the parade, fading
out into the moment oceans a hallway of memory—standing

beside a tall statue whose person has a ghost who haunts these grounds
who hears these fountains when water pours forth
generously allowing people to have fresh clean drinks from the mouth, as
the sink in the kitchen below begins to shake
and the tremors in a nervous system belonging to something else is felt, as
personally as stars are in the face of a person who was human—it is known
this is what it is to become squeezed into a realm beyond the body—there

are no more whispers now, everything
has fallen silent, to
look about us is to hear the voices of the leaves


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