You listen to its streaming
when it moulds
to the hue of the moment,
to the creases and folds
of your countenance’s underside.
You listen when it glides
in the thing’s wake
or when with a rustle
switches itself on.
You had a jolt when its words
appeared on the screen
at the lecture, perfectly fitting
the lecturer’s point.
Its gurgling river, its hissing gravel
are now once more going.
Yes, this is how the gods besiege us
and win us over,
not thunder and lightning,
nor awe-inspiring glances
but just this patient sugar-shaking,
our skin, bones, heart,
our nodding on the pageant earth
caught in this ceaseless weaving,
the quiet persistence
of a sense beyond sense.
