While Listening to Spirit

Sound enters the guts
and we call it music.

My blood begins to hiss
as the drums rise.

Somewhere there lives
an alphabet, I dare to say

not of this Earth,
that has found the time

to not care anymore,
and when it is really like this,

and it is,
you can pluck

a string of sunlight as it stands
still before your eyes.

Did you see it? It looks like rope
in a groove of daytime,

it is that cool—

and when you play it,
when you pluck that light-

string, the water molecules
in your skin

separate and drop
through your fingers,

the cells in your body crawl
like insects in the dirt,

and you are happy:
if you were told

to whisper love poems
to molecules of carbon

and make the dead
rise again,

you would do it.

Right now,
I have to turn the record over

so get off my case.