there is this static that
holds a record playing
close
to a breast trespassed by cilia
into caverns and around corners and cartilage
a held so held that infants and loners
kick and moan their envy into the
caves that blankets make when they
are barely touching bodies

there is an ambulance for the heart
idling on the curb
one driver down
the other
settling a morphine drip
into groove of the circle
finding a vein that hasn’t been cured
a static that
trundles a run of spin and presses close
the wallflowers into books
their hesitation fed the studio audience for miles
no speak, no sweet
just a skinny arm to drop on another story
off to you music my hat completely off to you, so now
just hold me.