Addressing the Hoard

Across the dresser

the stacks of paper

have accordioned themselves

along their bent edges

yellow and wood hollow.

There's no sound

like one that doesn't belong.

To spill from plucked heights

again, and again

rejected.

The days gone still vibrating

in their strings

in matted solidarity -

receipts, flyers, photos,

their shine dusted silent

as the old, dank room,

as the sallow sun conceding

through gray blinds

that all light seen is past light.

The solo

of lamplight staring into the two-dimensional

speck

of streetlight

staring into

sky

spilling over the mahogany

of its instrument,

over senses pooling into other senses - 

light singing, sound bleeding,

playing me out,

playing me out.

Author's Note

. . .

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

Do you have a burn pit or a fireplace or even just a grill? Don't burn the instruments though, they can be frustrating but the music is very worth it.