Breath Of Stones Poem by Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III

I no longer hear voices,
only grunts and vibrations.

Noises, imitating life.

Designated to walk in chalkboard menageries
and carry their pillowcases of rotten fruit,

living on a steady regiment of mirrors
and derailed perceptions.

An oval window pours into their moonless glands
and a rope stitched hand swims into their copper pocket.

One man pulled me aside,
pulled out a thousand green canaries,
and told he was looking for a cloud that once lived in his shoe.

Another grabbed me by my indifference
and asked me 'Does the heat of the machine still
sigh into the forest? '

What man truly barks at laughter?

What moment sweats at the idea of taste?

What anchored crease of the desert do you go to dream...and where do you go to re-invent silence?