Says the man in his golden suit. Or was The Golden Suit his brand? Metal letter pressed through, a starry sign that blazes through the day and flickers wickedly at night. Dreams are for weekends, you said– cascading over white rocks into water sounds, crashing again and again. How I wish to pass every home and building, knowing who left and who survives them, to see the speed, the torque, the direction of our meshing gears transmitting rotational motion. More than that, I wish to drive.

How could she keep still with a piano,
the soul so tangled by its thin roots, turned upside down
and laughing still, that someone could not feel what was beneath their very feet.

Ah, I see what you mean.
It’s the bubbles under the river, the space in time between syllables,
the punctuation of silence in a meter.

Forgiveness comes after a long, repetitive song
so we can’t ignore the message. A voicemail without one missed call,
we all ought to move on once in a while; just for the heck of it.

Numbers take their turn to shine, displaying themselves
with such mater-of-factness as to offer up a piece of reality we savages
could never discover for ourselves. They glow in the glory of time, keeping track
so that we are left with red spots for the rest of our history, shedding shadows
from the corner of our eyes into treasures and spooks they wrote for us.
These obsessions were torn from their minds, scrambled out, and delivered to our prison doorstep–can’t get that
song out of my head, the one I’ve been dreaming of and forget upon awakening. The lyrics and tune succumbing
to a world of sounds: vacuums, cars, horns, wind, squeaky wheels, the ceiling fan;
the sound, the sounds, the sound, the harmony, the discord, keeping me from
your whispers. Speak to me a sequence of notes, not a statistic, not a fact to
drive your fear of disease, but a beautiful thing
to imagine.