already in motion

and through came the noise, through the wall of wax, whistle-thin, pointed. Brushing someone else’s hair off my page so I can write, thick weeping willows of hair rich in aroma.
mirror writing, despite or because of the noise. I step through and see what I have written from beneath. These are my mirrored words:
“if you mess with this, the karma pigs will oink against your soul”