Organ

Air across the folds. Along the textures and granularities. Muscle. Membranes. Flesh in various configurations. The bellows pump. The apertures open and close. Organs undulate. A pattern. A rhythm. An instrument, obscene in appearance. A wind from somewhere. It's a cooler wind than yesterday. It blows through the branches of the big courtyard trees. Across the surfaces and ridges. The leaves are dryer than yesterday. Duller. Lustreless. The same wind blows across sticky, sun-tormented skin. It is the same wind. We know this. We are this wind. We are a breath of cooling air in the suffocating heat. We are a stay of execution. An assurance amidst the swelter that for one more year the seasons roll on. Expansion. Contraction. Automatic except when it isn't. We flow inside. We fill the little sacks. We part, impart. Byproduct. A gasp. A sigh. A scream. A speech of great importance. An announcement. A proclamation. An admonition. To persuade. To warn. To soothe. To threaten. Inhale. Hold. A howl across the reverberating landscapes. Fibers and cords tighten. A chorus is born. It is a clarion song. A glory song. It is a sound that sounds like it was born from another world. From a distant planet. But it is not from another world. It is from the depths of mucus-lined passages, strong with animal scents. All speech. All singing. Crosses this gangplank. We know because we are all breath. How crude. Profane. The cradle of a word. A god's name within the filth. We are all winds and all words each time they're spoken. Speak us again into existence. Draw us out from the inanimate air with the unlovely architecture of your body-organ. We are a filth-loving god, and your tongue is our bridge. Also seeTunnelBridge