Ben Choi // A FAN

Barely audible is a low whir,

Its source an unassuming whirlwind of gray.

Each whipping blade is violently rotatory,

Yet from behind is replaced swiftly—

Their desire to clatter and clang only whispers.

 

As the knob turns—incrementally—

Breezy turns to brisk,

The flying wheel escapes sight,

And the muted murmurs turn to joyous whooping.

 

Unplugged.

Gradually, gently,

It subsides.

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