I’ve listened for a concert in the concertina wire.
Hear it, how it thrums along barbs
like moistened fingers run around a crystal rim,
like the B-flat in my college neighbor’s radiator,
the B-flat in everything, so much so
we rarely notice. Noise equals music
if you figure out the melody, where it comes from.
Like heavy metal—who would’ve thought?
Techno thumping above the dancefloor?
Sure, but then there’s convict music:
low notes mixed with guilt, remorse.
Where birdsong fades & light
retakes the curtained stage,
I have stayed in the theater too long.
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