Wednesday, April 18, 2018


Even though it 
doesn't exist, there is still
this certain word
whose terrible weight is immeasurable—

it sits there on the page, like the derelict 
tufts of half-fermented leaves 
and stray cigarette 
packs, obscuring every storm drain,

it looks from far away 
like a languid ribbon of rising smoke—pretty
but useless 
in a windless sky, 

it sounds
like the unsought hysteric 
tack of hard rain 
against every midnight-blue windowsill,

not the sound 
of any one specific music—but rather, 
of all music put together's
bleary echo.