Her skull is a cavity for notes and words
spread on the interior as cavemen daubed their homes
in dark, misunderstood days,
in delicate spindle-brushed times,
fragile as mediaeval glass that has been dug from the ground.
Her skull is a whispering gallery for slipshod tunes
A nave where the gossip is passed around.
An arching vault that captures the tremulous voices of
the aged and the lonely and those close to god and death.
Her skull is a dry gourd of curved bone
A drum-beat, percussion house
for natives to beat out their messages.
A hollow shell, a thrum of life.
Her skull is a sounding-house for new ideas.
Her eyes see only the interior,
Dark like Africa, full of new things.
The latest remedy to come from there is Bach.
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