fusion of sound
& fusions
of ears
smoke curls
rapt
attention
of my guts
of waiters
& squat black speakers
& urban
rats
so used to
blighted areas
of town,
less used
to moments
of transcendence
a bellowing,
a roar, a thrumming
then, understated as a squeak
a glinting on
buffed metal
& spray of spit
& spirit
through the
reeds
cheeks
distended
& eyes
looking out
from between
hills of sounds, between
phalanx of
instruments
a breaking
apart, a dismembering
of reality
into constituent
parts
my sore soul
revealed
then rhythmic
chorusing, a wholeness
a sea, a
flow, a warm wind
over the
savanna
in your eyes
momentarily,
the enlivened soul
lies rocking
in a cradle
of sound
Frank Meintjies
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