Beneath the drumming of my own,
I hear the heartbeat of the worm.
I, sometimes, hear what I can't see:
the sighing sounds of broken bones,
one bubble bursting in a sea of foam--
within this truth, I seem to know
the absolutes of eternity.
But, I do not hear the world I see:
the truth of things wherever they be,
the useful words which feel their way--
I do not know what, mean, they.
I do not hear the world I see.
If you've any comments on
this poem, J.D.Heskin would be pleased to hear from you.