[A little sound for the lung embargo]
A little sound for the lung embargo, this timid element
found frequently in the bodies of mice & other unexpected
creatures of disaster. A small noise moving toward a great
library of itself, mold-riddled & caustic. Our tremors,
our hands, put the box on the table, open its lid, pluck
at its brain, its pastiche of pasteboard & piano wire. If we
can handle its hinges, we do ourselves honor, we remove
the sieve, count the black cylinders, scour the circuit
board with farmhouse acid. We put the box in our bedroom,
bedecked with roustabout conductors, misplaced sheet music,
malfunctioning metronomes. We wind its mechanism, let the rust
come off in sheets, let its tin voice garble the air.
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