Globs and blobs and wrinkle worms
speckle a yellow cube
with some recognizable
forms

part of a hand, a woman’s figure
“a red moon rides”
in the middle of a globe

just enough familiarity
to give it some reality.
A few strings of harmonious
melody
but mostly random runs of notes, rather, lines

made by a free mind’s command:

“sling your knuckles on the bottom of the happy tin pans.”