Raymond Farr
In Between A Plum and Sound
I can’t explain “nature” intentionally.
The whirlpool was music I raced to keep up.
The past is dark I slowed to see.
The whirlpool had a face.
“Forward” was music renovated by innovation.
The plum was weet.
“The plum was sweet” decided the music.
Contrived sensation.
Remain attentive while I write: The blue crossing
where the quarter horses stood.
I waited while Time.
As I see, I heard: “walking down staircase.”
The sound toward moved simultaneously.
A blue plum was sweet.
The singular, and its shadow, half-insane in the crypt.
Escape was the music.
