A Poem for Record Players

The scene changes Five hours later and I come into a room where a clock ticks. I find a pillow to muffle the sounds I make. I am engaged in taking away from God his sound. The pigeons somewhere above me, the cough a man makes down the hall, the flap of wings below me, the squeak of sparrows in the alley. The scratches I itch on my scalp, the landing of birds under the bay window out my window. All dull details I can only describe to you, but which are here and I hear and shall never give up again, shall carry with me over the streets of this seacoast city, forever; oh clack your metal wings, god, you are mine now in the morning. I have you by the ears in the exhaust pipes of a thousand cars gunning their motors turning over all over town. 6.15.58