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Poetry: Ori Fienberg

When humans evolve, in many millions of years, towards flight, the primary adaptations will occur not at the arms, but in the ears. Only the ears are primed by a proper understanding of the vibrations of currents.

Only recently have scientists discovered the lasting effect that song has on surfaces it makes contact with. Indeed, this change occurs on a quantum level and is cumulative. All sorts of wells contain the nectar of residual sounds.

In Brazil there have been reports of hummingbirds hovering just above people’s shoulders. Those who have experienced it describe a tickle so soothing that it plays along the inner ear like a warm whisper, a living Q-tip, the feeling of song.


It is national take your mirror to work day. They giggle as they enter, going round and round in spinning doors. They ride elevators to the top floor and mimic executives.

At lunchtime their fathers and mothers take them to eat reflections, and show them off to friends. “My, Stevens, the last time I saw your mirror it was only three feet high. This mirror is beginning to look just like you!”

Some envy their vast potential for growth. They learn everything they need to know in an instant. But they have atrocious memory, and they break far too easily.


There once was a pony. He set up a magic show somewhere in Arizona. There were cards, illusions, levitation, and sometimes even, the pony would read the minds of audience members, sharing their stories with soothing accuracy.

But whenever someone sat down to write about his feats, all they could remember was a rocking sensation, the smell of hay, and the soft creak of wind against wooden walls.

And around this time there was a horse that was making the news, because, you see, he could talk. Someone gave the horse (or perhaps she was a zebra) a TV show, and no one really knows what happened to the pony.


All rights reserved to Ori Fienberg.

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