Tuned into light, the sportscasters hunted a crying
pillow. Long, steaming kiss goodnight.
Goodbye, radio, the only thing
I ever loved, I never lived.
* * *
Across tones of a bell, I never remembered the country's
shape. Across atonal hell, I made a sound escape.
I wound up a rodeo clown. I witnessed gunshots, sand,
sadness, I was never so cool, I said.
A removal. Moving across town. Echo, I said.
Moving around wires in ceilings, being found.
I'm listening to permanent footsteps, ahead,
in the future, the whine of a breaking machine,
the sound of putting off for tomorrow what
I could do today could I do today. I'm listening to
the whole year, saying it back. Saying it, losing
the whole thing. Talking back to it at the end
of the day while the fridge hums.
Well, electrocution; well, stargazing. Listening
the cicadas into the year where what year is this
empty husk. Seeds listening to a constant
forge, forgetting the white noise of the factory,
factoring in the possibilities while the world said
this is how to lose an entire year and go back.
Listening as cars take in birds and begin to fly.
As in this is the year I'm hearing, knowing this year
is far away. What you hold is only small,
is in your hand, is not far away. In your head,
not out loud. I'm hearing myself think
in the frozen traffic waves that pause,
hearts that stop and shatter,
highways in constant repair, all night long.