I commit the shape of your song
to words, so that it might hatch, ravenous,
into an unsuspecting future,
a malicious gift from a jealous echo
sent to loom in dark corners
and terrify small children:
The punch of your rhythm;
a prize fight in Morse.
The snare, a jab,
the kick, an uppercut.
Red vinyl gloves grow redder still,
slick between the beat and the beaten.
The spine of your groove:
Sawtooth vertebrae swing and clack,
drawing and slackening in time.
Tight up where the ribcage looms;
loose down where the tailbone shimmies.
Low, hot tremor up your ivory tower.
The keening trickle of your melody,
taut and dangerous as wet wire;
fresh nerves dripping electricity.
Singing glacial friction,
high-tension hymns to praise
the gorgeous blue burn of new skin.
You ride this beast into town
leaning careless on a Day-Glo pommel,
leaving hoofprints deep as dump-trucks.
And when the rain pools in them,
the sparrows touch down to bathe,
and burst instantly aflame.
I build your song from popsicle sticks,
and they explode; I paint its silhouette
in Krylon across the city,
and the riots stretch for weeks.
It has invaded my cells, and must be
wrung out – like poison. Like faith.