A thin slice of high-pitched but sweetened air

A thin slice of high-pitched but sweetened air
vibrating through a pocket
what was later called
a gourd
a vessel
and then suddenly
a whole orchestra tiptoes
across the threshold
causing bowels to flutter

a wisp thinner than a mosquito’s buzz
a cacophony that quickly burns off
the ozone
the most ordinary thing on stage

a dust mote screeching through
the friction
of citified air

this low mechanical hum
disguises someone singing
off in the distance
a dog barking
something halfway between
insect and wire
or
an underfoot gnawing
that has me pulling the covers
over my head.

Andy Peyrie is an autodidact who started writing to ameliorate the boredom of some of his paying (yet nevertheless unmonitored) jobs.