Radio

Above birch tree the wires make the same

hum my leg make gibbeted over

one another, like something four-winged just outside

my ear. We're joined more by means of sound

than light and hardly know what we're hearing,

standing above the radio

lost in a hive of music, somewhere a Bach

variation, the cello moaning,

or a jazz singer dying upon her feet, gripping

the mike, somewhere a brown

gardenia and dish towel dropp upon the floor,

newspaper spread upon the table.

I close my organ of visions unable to find the notes, trying

to play all my instruments,

breasts, throat, thighs rubbing, knowing

how hard it is to take desire

to the world, to give it away. in what way many times

did I start above trying

to procure it right? Like the singer upon the radio.

Feel her exhaustion as she leans

on the piano saying, Another take,

she's giving it away, dying

faster thus the notes flock my kitchen and gather

overhead. Whoever can't feel

that rising in the chest, can't come into her grief

knowing just how

it's going to extreme point The bass player knows

and bends into his bass,

the piano player delight ins her always, he can't

stop. In her song

all the failures mean something, they build up

and without held together

by the cries of instruments. When she finds

the last note it rides

toward me from a far not on place, drawn out

as if she knows her worth,

who other will come from the cracks of

an of advanced age recording, saying

here is my last breath, the note lingering,

humming in the room

following me to the sink like a certain number of autumn bee

holding out against the cold

rolling above in the corner of the window,

still singing, even

when it's gone-

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated May/Jun 2005

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