麻豆约拍

what is this box that makes all air incarnate,
that breeds the ether with flesh and a flavour,
as though a field of daffodils or a honking horn
with a cow passing by were in continual motion,
in commotion about a kitchen island, this radio
inflating the air with its aerial repertoires,
or are we, are we so porous, so liftable
like the feel of hourly pips as they pad the blue,
that we become radio, radio riding in the airwaves
while washing greens in a colander, that we lose ourselves
to this air, this breath of the aftermath, say,
when we turn up the dial caught in molten horrors
honeying the earth, or while we simply while ourselves
in a melody that caught us off-radar, oh air,
the spontaneities of air,
a burden released as we wear a blank, undemanding
face that leads us by our lugs, our lobes alone,
for the breath that colours the way we breathe,
and we didn鈥檛 have to speak or make a sound
and we didn鈥檛 have to speak or make a sound