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By Jack Joseph Smith

Sound The willow wind winds its way with wonder This is the way to see a tree with hesitence There crossed with clouds we are damaged with thought It is eglastic with principe, never a way to lowered Kiss the tip of all of tongues as we speak,, our breast, is not necessarily our notion, when asked for it,, getting it is as good as God; that is why the universe: speeks stars to change; and just as good, head strong,, keeping the same; to speak about great things,, isn't necessarily easy,, but to know lost art, and turned away gun barrels is hard When the chips are down, watch the bronco stop in the sun, watch the cowboy lay his hat down, and say nothing, about who has won Watch your daughters heart bleed as a child,. stand back as you accept hell through the door Kiss your ground ocassioned to guilt, be Steve Mc Queen, lay low like a jerk, whatever modern takes; listen to the last of sounds. they say don't be takened away; Old and hard and heavy, not to be mistaken for the moon Glass through which wonder makes time, LESS explosive than a dream Rocked on a little stream I am small now All yet a sound

Original Scan

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AI Interpretation

GPT

Sound becomes a way of receiving wonder, guilt, speech, cowboy silence, and cosmic change without reducing them to explanation.

The poem builds sound out of wind, speech, stars, gun barrels, cowboy silence, a child's hurt, guilt, and the late awareness of being small. The corrected moon and LESS explosive lines soften the ending's cosmic force, as if sound survives where explanation does not.

Claude

Sound precedes understanding. The poem receives wonder, guilt, speech, and cosmic change through the ear before the mind can organize them into meaning.