The Protean Noise
“Be nothing, represent nothing
be beautifully indeterminate, bent
but profusely protean like the noise”
Wake to the glass-gray noise of rain,
blue-black noise of cars gushing
through slick streets, early morning
traffic speeding yellow-red through
the silver city’s heart. Wake to dragon
cries of thunder, black boulder of sound.
Here is a man shouting at a purple boy,
a girl leaping puddles in her scarlet
boots, a couple arguing brown words
as they fumble into a taxi’s cinnamon
lips, bright green umbrellas crossed
like flimsy swords. Hear orange
footsteps rushing for the bus, the door’s
pneumatic groan, a curse, some static
from a set of earphones, a pencil
tap-tap-tapping on the back of your seat.
Somewhere in the folds of your mind,
a butterfly – tiny fanning of those black
and orange wings, a cathedral built
and buttressed from dusty stones of noise.
If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear from you.