Megan Spreadbury

compact discs

spin in broken radios

never reading

music etched in

the shining halo

 

an altered reception

scratched

in the middle

causing countless errors

as over-used trials

barter for

a different outcome

 

feverishly hoping

the old instrument

would acknowledge

sanctity

with indifference

joyful in the static spaces

 

when radio

wouldn’t read

no

making sounds

of silence

rather than attempts

to notice the disc

sat still and waiting

 

when

soft sound

would pour out

two steady speakers

interrupted by

buffering static

taking its

place

in the middle of

artful melodies

 

as if

forgotten words

were the story

of lost time