whoosh

rain made its own sea and the sea its own waves, clouds
swelled above the sea's white surf – bright sounds –
and like dust on the tape track, everything mixed together
the voices, whispering, stand out from yesterday, from the
dead conversations, woven into the moiré of swelling
...sss...welling interferences, wherever the wind goes, whether
it softly surges rushes subsides, lightly lifts, like fluff
hushing with a rustle or into ash grey silence – a hand movement
as if after prolonged illness all simultaneities were to end
all gusts to switch tack, reared up, questions simply to arise

Hendrik Jackson * audio  

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