by Ernest Hilbert on 23/01/13 at 11:24 am
All contrary noises in the world,
the bang of unlatched things,
the scratching in the wall,
the scrape of nails, the startling of birds
in the long grass—
I shake loose with them.
I am a child, I blaze along the error—
the wrong note struck
when playing a duet,
the china tea set smashed
at Grandpa’s house in Sydney,
exciting the scolding chorus,
the stinging smacks—and oh,
it makes bright sound
to get beyond the prudence of forgive me,
to rattle stolen marbles in the tin,
stay outside and shriek when summer thunders,
the glory of all noise against the will
of cautious voices warning calm, keep calm . . .
I am unsound, the language you were made in,
the silence of a catastrophic breaking.
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