Listening to William Carlos Williams


The needle clambering
the shellac road
has sharpened its
contact point enough,
whilst garnering fluff,
to mimic your
cut-glass tones clip-clopping
through
crackles,
hisses,
strangled bubblewrap
and one deep scratch
which repeats
at seventy-eight beats
per old minute,
clicking over something
about a “white desire, empty”
and is either a flower
or a hand,
or nothing;
and the thump,
like the trip
of a boot on a stoop,
has me hearing
the dust blow forward
from the paint-flaked porch
of 1940s America.

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5 thoughts on “Listening to William Carlos Williams

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