by Kevin Conder
As we have gotten older
we have argued more.
And as we have argued more
more of our voice has risen into the air.
Risen into the ionosphere where the sun hits them
free and clear.
The ionosphere is where the dead hang out, flying on
solar winds, their tattered clothing spread like wings.
The dead fly with their mouths open and swallow all we have said.
Sing them out the way we meant them to sound.
Sounding like the singing rock when the sun has cleared the ridge.
Like a new but forgotten language.
The language falls as notes written to the earth like gentle Swedish rain.
The rain is the oil the dead were anointed with. It glazes the sea.
The planets are reflected in the calm waters. And if we watch the sea and quiet the rage within us we can hear the music of the spheres, the music that the dead give us.
The words that we meant to say pitch perfect and perfectly phrased.
Like we were twenty-five again.
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