Herewith, the mute page
the silent ink,
the dumb pixels,
devious soundless shapes,
making so much noise.

Yes, loud! The boom of mountains exploding,
reverberations that bring pain to your ears,
cause your shoulders to shudder,
your teeth to shatter and crack!
Then what?
The plunge to a cottony hush?
A whisper, faint perhaps but solid as the heartbeats
of a pregnant mother and her womb,
fecund as the damp prairie loam.
Marble. Jelly. Bread dough. Plastic.
Rigid. Wobbly. Smooth. Elastic.

Now, toes and arms swirl in nonsensical dance,
In spirals or frilly, erratic romance.
Now, chests burst. Now palms sweat. Now grief and now grins.
Now, watch as the walls bend and all the room spins.

As Zappa plopped voices to peddle a tune,
Did Goethe need Schubert and melodic pace?
Must lips form the words and ears hear the sound
For the form to have function, the circle have round;
For rhythm to rise up and off to a place
Like a dance hall? A garden? Cathedral? The moon?

Eyes bleed, the stomach turns,
hearts catch firm in the throat.
This from the sly curves and lines,
the dots in their dull tens of thousands.
the mute page.