Our ears touch each other: the left of yours the right of mine. They listen.
The ozone-filled street noise filtering from the outside into our other ears cannot fade away with its broken sound wave that
the continuous double-fugued humming of two conchae touched together narrowing on the way inside is as reserved for the sea
as the way you lean on the flute with your lower lip bending your hip along its floating line
and the sounds are blown away among your sparkling rests.
Your ear is touched by mine.
