Here is a revision of the poem. I am going to send it to Qarrtsiluni for their new edition, which consists of retellings of old stories.
The World is a Sound: A New Creation Myth
From the bulbous innards of trombones
and from the sinuous caverns of bass fiddles.
From the lithe length of the flute and the
apologetic slant of the harp, treading
on everyone’s toes, the orchestra
plays the world. Who could doubt
that the ocean first flowed
from the French horns’ golden bell
as from the golden spigots of a tub,
or the sun, rudely cracking the shell
of primordial blackness as blank as slate,
as it has done every day since,
from the cymbal’s first blow?
No doubt at all that this
is the sound of the first day:
the conductor scraping his baton
on the podium, the guys in percussion
drumming their fingers on the pages,
whispering, impatient for the day to begin