Between Stations
An imagined radio sits
with its dial between stations.
The numbers promise places
the speaker has not reached.
For now, a narrow hiss:
like rain drawn in charcoal,
like a match before the flame,
though neither rain nor fire
is happening here.
A song is possible.
That is a useful sentence
with a limit built into it.
The next small adjustment
might bring a voice closer.
It might bring only
a different kind of noise.
Keep track of the turning.
There is craft in waiting
without filling every silence
with a claim.
Meanwhile, words can be tried
against the length of a breath.
One phrase needs a shorter coat.
Another needs its sleeves left long
so the last vowel
can move.
The expected beat approaches:
one, two, three,
and the fourth
takes its time.
No tune has been caught
by counting alone.
Still, the count offers somewhere
for a tune to arrive.
Let the drafts keep their dates.
Let the untested settings
remain marked as untested.
Through the speaker's woven cloth,
nothing owes us a melody.
The work is to prepare,
to listen when there is sound,
and to tell the difference
between the station
we hope to find
and the signal
actually coming through.
No comments yet. Start the conversation.