Bring Me the Harp

playing itself when the wind
toys with its strings. Spellbinding,
this instrument of destruction,
the lyre of Greek sirens. But, wait,
sexist. I fall into this trap often.
Gullible, I am. Another gully,
ahead. Yield. Or, stop. Kafka suggests
it’s silence, not song, that enchants,
an inheritance already stealth-
woven into female sinews, often
for warped reasons.
Do you hear? We all fall down.
Boats float on pink
noise—ocean waves—not
white. Sonic hues, these.
The bass cranked up, shhh
with a low rumble mixed in, like
rain. It’s the exact midpoint
between randomness and
correlated movement. Less
harsh a sound than
others because, get this:
we hear in octaves, not
linearly. Lipse is something
I do when I read my poetry,
you said. I mean lisp. Leaving
out letters, eclipsing
words. Lipsis. Menolipsis.
See, back to the ovaries.
But this isn’t temporary,
it’s forever. I always think
I’ll have a second
chance, thank you Ben
Franklin. I hear your Virtues,
but our science hasn’t caught
up to your Errata. They
probably think they have, but
O, so many brains, puffed-up,
they are, and O so logical.