by LeeAnne Lavender
I listen to the bass beat knock against
the Shanghai skyline.
I have been silent for hours,
listening to authors and paintings and
two delicate, hinged metal feathers fluttering soundlessly
against the concrete sky,
Icarus in modern form.
Then people having afternoon tea, laughing, talking,
stretching toward the feathers’ graceful arc of
A door opens and the towers speak,
singing to the slate ribbon of river
and to the wave of windswept people
snapping photos on the Huangpu.
My silence spreads like wildfire
and I fall into it, arms spread wide.