It’s a fancy word for the simple
sound of leaves whispering in the breeze.
We like to name things. Especially when
we don’t understand them: illnesses, moods, stars,
scent of a baby’s scalp at midnight.
I play Satie softly not to awaken
her upstairs. I’m not much of a
musician, more a phonometrician, measuring and writing
down sounds as the Moon approaches fullness,
far from Paris, breathing in 3/4 time.
Deep sounds seem to come to me
through the third ear, in the bones.
On this planet, covered two-thirds in water,
tympanic drumbeat carried to feet, hands, skull,
finally to the smallest bones of all.