Spangle

Intent on dismembering
the four chambers of her imagination
She sits
in ringing repetition

An eye brooding over
her own plot of land
at the back of the rattling echoes
we disturbed

And there she waits
for the dust to unsettle
that horizontal lever
she uses
when weighing out her time

I can hear it now
The dry beat drummed out
against a thin and furrowed membrane

A couple of voices
one barely a whisper

Both cursing the distance
and each ripple the pebble makes
whenever dawn is near