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Eel String, St.

By Josh Wagner

Poem

The call comes in replicate tones–
what we transpose as sirens
of the ear, drum down now
the thrickthrummbumb of the hollow.

It’s up to you
to wrangle notes like sheep
and fill the coffers of our ears
with maple sips from syrup strings,

your etched woodslapping hands

(The left,
whose syncopation grip
ignites the void,
as the epileptic right
portraits the many
faces of a conglomerate
clockspring of gods)

Reach deep into your tool belt of non-void nothingthings:
the space between notes,
old breath, empty
anticipation,
electric potentiality,
incorruptible strips from a corruption
which dissonance cannot untune,
even that dissidence which
must itself
un-be.

There is more sound in
silence bound
than in open fields of noise