Onto the planes of the floor that lists
And slips into a field across which grit
Spills in rubber bits over spits of grass
Within the lip of a concave beast.
Pushing forth heat and the beats of notes that scream into an impenetrable mass of
Teeming beings melted into a gelatinous sheen
Their wordless voices are shrieks that form a backdrop against the reel of notes.
What is it except burning muscles and the battery’s echoic surge
What is it except the metronome of our feet and the sheet music
Imprinted upon our brains
Like oily tattoos that ooze into the grooves of the mind
What is it except our numb fingers that fuse to the metal in the bitter wind
Drifting in eddies
As the final strands of warmth fade into mist.