A. This is the morning crow
and mating call of friction,
the cry of matchsticks rutting:
percussive scrape
of rosined hair
gone skidding crosswise
down the strings too near the bridge,
a suicide who lost her nerve
.
D. Rubber screeches pavement
at gasping angles, an awkward
coupling before the crash
that never comes:
suppressed too late,
a nervous giggle
smothered at the funeral,
a strangled scream in miniature
.
G. Guttural yelp of the mastiff
corrected by choke chain,
its protest cut short—
the clearing of
a throat that snaps
the silence in a
waiting room that holds its breath;
disruption of a steady pulse
.
C. And this is the roar of a world
as it halts on its axis, the crush
of earth unto itself:
a din transcribed
by seismograph
at epicenter,
absent voice to echo growls
of wounded, grinding continents
.
(first appeared in issue 1 of Packingtown Review)