Poetry

Organ

had the wind a voice certainly it would whisper to me, softly sings the wind caught up in a box | a row of perfect teeth for biting flecks of air churning maybe death, maybe divorce or rebirth as G two octaves above middle C | sirocco sets out to find expression in sforzando, sudden shout as wordless transcends word and takes up melody | who would have thought, would have known that harmonics crowd the air like starlings and need only a larynx of brass pipes to spring soundward

Alex Marsh