from Sore Songs
In a quick smear before full focus, the eye
misreads what it wants to see, whole cities
hopefully elided, words reversed, double-
negatives parsed and reparsed ‘til they thrum
taut as piano wire. So too the ear hears what it needs
or what it fears, and every letter turns love letter,
whether scrawled in sidewalk chalk or blinking
pixels on an reader board gone berserk, please
help, hungry in Sharpie on cardboard or a slick
promo subject line, It’s not too late! or this safety
orange classic flipped in haste: sorry, we’re closed.
So I try to read you, listening so hard my eyes cross,
but in your honeyed mumble everything sounds like
please come for me, or don’t comfort me.
The line crackles, consonants lost in wind and miles
of wireless wires. I’m sorry, did you mean to say mistake?
I could have sworn I heard my name.