Weaving verses
with a buzz
here and there:
a wasp
drawing circles
through the air,
almost unnoticed,
or not as much
as the thumbs
on the drums,
the warm wood
under fingertips,
the nails
against strings,
the scrape
of chairs
rocking
the floor,
the train
chiming
somewhere beyond
the walls,
and hands
meeting hands
until clapping
becomes an echo,
until the walls
hold the sound
for us.
And our hearts
beating
at the same time
(soft drums
beneath our skin)
while we let
the poets
scratch
our souls,
leaving
small marks
underneath.
The world
stops
and listens.
Every verse
a brushstroke
(wet color
dragged across
the silence)
every voice
a streak of light
still thundering
through the room
long after
the chairs
have emptied,
the strings
gone quiet,
the wasp
has disappeared,
and everyone
is peacefully
gone…