Chimes tinkle from the Orient --
pling -- plitter -- glinkle -- dihm.
Glissandos drift on breathing wind,
a sound that carries far on night.
No, that is only being imagined.
Other tones come as phantasms.
Murmurrings bring much meaning.
Sometimes one just has to plant
aural seeds in gourds of silence.
Real words from pensive corners
would sound more like a scolding --
the way furniture solidly mocks
pathetic tangos of one's fancy,
the way a shrugging mirror laughs
when passing by it lost in thought.
Wind is stirring up old stars,
thrumming unseen power lines.
Light bulbs dim and shadows play.
Familiar solids fade to melting.
In that masked hesitating time,
a mummer is in the vestibule
and offers up mute vocalises.
A phantasm's consonantal code
might leak from a gentle tongue.
And silence steps aside to hear
a voice cooing imaginary smiles.
Chimes are playing in my Orient --
ching -- chinkle -- chitter -- chimple.
The night has sent a distant fairy,
spreading glitter on pale moments.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck