Beating
Like a drum, or
a Hammer

Creaking
Crackling, and torquing

A short fuse
torching

The sound of morning
The sound of night
little reason
could be right

all perception
like shadows shapes
vibration of air
not here, but there

silence waiting
shadows trace

so very tiring
ready the fool
record what splatters

breaking begets broken
stopped by puzzled motion
jelled rapidly in place

what then has become
some useless clumps:
erstwhile teeth, and face