Hello

Hello

It flutters in on wings, imperceptible

as the moon; pulls apart

like Velcro, with the whisper

of fallen ice cream rippling

and boiling and green—

if green were a sound

and not a thing.

It is green, this thing

I hear; I see with shut lids.

Magic.

The magic of coincidence owed

solely to the thunder of one being

hearing

a voice

they could not name.

The shattering

of eternal silence; a question

cloaked in a statement:

I.

Raised as the darkening

stench of burning toast,

couched in the immensity of all

things: my green – the eternity

of one moment.

The only certainty in all

this space; the sound

of green.