Brooks Schmitt



Daktulos scuttling underneath
withering palms of engraved hands
Short of breath orators play at the abacus,
orchestrate language,
scribbles on pages of shadows
and undulate keys under silent
syllables, echoing hands in the
wringing of ink out of paper

Pianists flitting across the ascent
of the black upon white keys,
paperlike, painted with flats indistinct
in the place of its twin sharp
softening sounds on the charcoal
and ashes from symphony in flame
Flickering opus from daktulos
pitching down strips of a timbre

Audible silence on scrolls
of apocalypse, begin at the end,
working unraveled in flames of the papyri
smoking with black ash
Ancestral lips forming burning maxims
on the clouds of inhaled smoke,
crackling, snapping. Alone in the stacks
of enflamed pyrrhics, silence.