That damned load
in this case, under porches and eaves
of my skull
listens better. Sense or not--
fluent words matter in action a well as thoughts;
but the breath scratched on a tape
stammers.
I make a minute none may revise
only erase. A life halts and stops
to stumble in its own prints: a blue record-
button jams, pushing up the silver "rewind"
and equal "play" jags and creaks, forces to the force of action;
I can make my machine go on without being broken.
Silent, waving ghost
in the [cassette]
is smoke of what could have been written.
I do badly
what may not be contrived
in the pulling back, the twiting around
and find a failure unbroken.
No inging here: the Japanese maker will not allow
much glide, roll-ball of sound. Here's the lost gamble, uncontrolled and
thrown breath
of a passion.
You can go
over and over
what I have said
and sound can be substituted for sound, prose
for verse
as if instructed engineering.
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