Crackled
and hissed into life;
whispering imperfection
and seeking small sweet adjustments.
Softly privately peaking
blowing you, earnest eager listener,
bowling you, out on to a horizontal dais
at the end of a thousand languid years of staring.
Crackle again, and click
off. Then rumbling on, quickly
as the disc flips its spin heel over shoulder
in the palms of two devoted hands.
Crumbled and creasing
with a forgotten obsolescence;
a smile on a lip
or an ear on a sound
a closing door storing
warm memories, or shivering
at nightmares
of scratches and lint.
Needling your silence awake,
interrupted by a song
you could never skip
even if you wanted to
comes the crackle, again.
Tempering any temper,
with the warmth of that rustling crunch
it prickles again, imperfectly.
Book of Pye 