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EVERYTHING IS

I.

II.

III.

IV.

Kitchen sink, melodrama: here’s
how it stands, how it sounds (as if it’s calling
us home). We’re singing in the weather
as it drives our air heavy, punching

gas into lung. We’re early or embryonic,
we’re spin or circular, no wonder it feels 
like we’ve been here. And before: everything 
felt. Maybe it was faucet instead of fall. 
Maybe you knew we’d find it here: a stitch

through cloud, a soft reconstruction of our
songs, the silence when we’ve finished 
singing. The volume will grow again we

 

will find this: a symphony from the garbage 
disposal or another reason to cover your ears. An easy 
way to tape our echoes together. To hear oh, I love you
on a Tuesday, to sing your way into silence.

- - - - - - - - -

Ellery Beck has work published in Passages North, Typehouse, Poetry South, Waccamaw and elsewhere. They are one of the editors of Beaver Magazine, as well as a poetry reader for Poet Lore.

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