Deaf –
Am I such
an inquisitive misanthrope
whose voice is louder and rowdier
than sounds arousing
curiosity?
Deaf –
I once sat by
the orchestra pit
in a theater
watching dancing feet
gracefully tip the stage
while her liquescent arms
softly stroke the air
like flaunting branches
from swinging trees
in whispering winds
at the height of
the blithe
violin bows.
Deaf –
When asleep
I awaken in dreams
hearing capricious poetics
from the flow of hands
dancing in the cadence
of deviant voices.
Deaf –
Can words
persevere
without the genteel hands
even with enraged voices?
Deaf –
Am I such an ostentatious
meditative misanthrope
whose words dance on the page
at the heights
of deprecating hands
in the verses
of an impassioned
voice?
By Curt Robbins