Christine Hume
Hum                              (page 6)

Remember being sung to sleep. Links to further on, link to then, link nothing. The refrain steps across a field of poppies, licks at a yellow sky through which blue has grown green to make red. Link a dog picking out a path invisible to human eyes; follow it into a blind spot, a bright spot of time. Repeated lines to follow there. Link a hawk hovering. A voice feathers the surface. Singing answers back with heat. Attendant field between sky and dirt, I am drowsily trying to see over the scent. Sight sharpens through the nose: open field of reedy song, emptying out and cunning. My head tries to lift. The men are laughing. The head is trying to lift. Sun setting on the field, a dense silent roar.

What you first imagine to be a red field becomes a screen. When the ocean in the film turns red, that sour sickness rises up in my throat. Red wells up in water. Link horizon rocks, link heads bobbing bodiless, link wherever I am, it’s too late. Forget the voice that never came. Walk toward the glaring sun. Color breaks itself into separate hues of noise-tones.5 The red noise of my dreams comes flooding back; voice is what keeps me asleep; it protects my sleep. Then hours later, minutes or months, I wake up vomiting blood. This is my first act in the reset world.

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