Only when quiet will it start, where the song finds a fingerhold. Else its knotted mass of conflicting notions, freeway traffic, madness tracking madness, keeping time where messages rain, but who calls? Where is her clarifying voice? Hiss of traffic lulls us sleeping, onward. Again. The next drip of text not to be missed, but somewhere a river shines still (does it, still?) and the birds know it (where and if it is). They call a swelling at the chest, it moves behind the cracked lips, parting now, to–––
To until. Again. An abrupt gravity tugs back at the throat. This sound is not what was there before, rising. Now it’s a swarm of speckled amnesias, screeching.
