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.
