The Ecstasy of Autumn

“To say anything—the mere effort alone—is a form of abandonment, an act of distortion. We can’t pin the world down in words, but there’s incredible pleasure in attempting to chart the slippage.”

—Joseph Massey

 

we slip

from being to saying

there is pleasure

in the tearing away

abandoning the seen

for the said

it’s the tension

between the two

between the too

many things

Tympanum, a cinquain sonnet

Sharp sounds 
impact only 
the thin skin of this drum, 
this timpanum, and then bounce like 
mallets,

making 
music of this 
cave, plucking the threads of 
this skein.  They will have no other 
impact. 

In this chamber, their soft timbres,
their reverberations 
and distortions  
are breath.