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                                    David Bruzina

If the world is just the sound
the notes make
exiting God’s mouth—
And the trees are sounds—
And the chairs are sounds—
And your skin is a chorus
of mortal noise—
And your eyes are sometimes
love howls,
sometimes fields
of quiet—

And if we, ourselves, our acts
and lives,
are buzzes and beats
broke loose from His breath—
are sounds set free
to flesh His score,
and be through obedience
to his composition
saved from our chemical bodies
and the knuckles of time—

Then I vote
we sneak from the concert
and drive to the river
and flop on a sheet
and improvise—
While pines ring
and fish peep as they leap
from the chording currents—
Let’s pour our hums
forever into each other’s
measureless ears.

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