Christopher Reid


A complete nervous system
is singing:
           supple, delirious
evening meditation music—

verandah shutters
wide open
to breezes and insects;
the horizon gulping the sun—

the bulbous, gravely jangled instrument
           ever more urgently
over a listening drone,

a drone that listens and responds to everything,

not least
the visceral throb,
the pulse and peristalsis
of two companionably babbling drums:

and the mind—
           scattered among the stars—
is content, at last,
with its place
           in the general scheme.


Solar System
La Tartuga


© 2003 Electronic Poetry Review