Poem: Ear

as with the machinery of grammar
ignorant of names
he uses the parts of hearing blindly
[promont, concha, cartilage of pinna…
giving sound to ideas
elated and imaginative
deafening him to the bullhorns of traffic
the stampede of oncoming chrome

a rosy mist spackles the air
a brief spray of matter
floats between silhouette buildings
like tomatoes swapped for clay pigeons
mass transit strikes him
high and low like a tympani
the blunt force pushing itself
from one side of his face
to the other
barreling through
barreling through
barreling through
the inner ear

[the accidental bus
gags on the chipped tooth of third gear
and halts with the tight whiny
of colts on hot reins…

don’t call it irony
that his hand clutches the winning numbers
[5, 11, 29…
don’t call it fate or due
his bloodied head and the ticket are not contracted
to mean what they mean together
the lucky earn their good fortune
just as heroes earn the rite to pass long and slow
to keep soiled rags red
while the aqueductus fallopi
fires and fires and fires
until all loud luck has rung out