Rob Galpin

This unsuccessful meditation;
no yellow-green to earth the wires.
In dampened quiet the doors won't open—
blow instead the free-blown fires:

The sprung Arundo donax—
the animal squeal and ominous rumble;
war-born spiritual, spittle and click.

It's a rattling spell to raise it.
Shaking reeds in a fizzy jungle—
summer morning, city park.

Grasses feed us twice:
The stick that strikes
the silent chimes
springs locks, lets jumbling words through—

maddeningly perfect, an ever-blowing riff—
tall rushes in a meadow.
The sweep of sounds won't solve you,

but could—like this enjambment—
have you freed, and stepping through—
across the opened door jamb.