Blind, symmetrical cups hold only what they are given,
Left to rattle with the spare change of tinnitus.
I was made to carry your words for but a moment.
I am a taker, a collector, never able to reply,
Unable to keep your words for myself.
I am but a messenger.
I am ears.
I bend, knowing your voice must pierce
My concentric, labyrinthine acceptance.
Scraps of fluid language flow and resound;
A vortex dances briefly on this fragile, spiral shell
I cannot stop being.
I am ears.
An auricle, I attempt to attain balance
By sensing vibrations others cannot;
A carousel spinning sound to gold.
But I cannot contain all I am offered.
I’m left with echoes I don’t always understand—
My ringing goes unanswered.
