Finch 39 (2004)

Three worlds, concentric circles revolving
In three-part harmony. Each singing out
in its given voice, within and devout
the largest, night-voiced whispering
a wheel within a wheel
Each singing in its own voice:

The largest, night-voiced whispering
Enveloping with the soft dirges
Of bare branches sighing
The hushed incantations of old newspapers
Given flight,
lifted from the cold road a moment

the loudest, many-voiced babelsong
a city ever rolling
named Finch 39
wandering humanity, weary nomad race
given rest
from the cold road a moment

the nearest, two-tongued bi-kingdom
divided, a barbed wire equator splitting two poles
“a little world made cunningly”
headphone-framed like ice caps
never resting
‘till the cold road is rolled away like a scroll

and I try and try to choreograph
these dancing planets
into a work that will make you proud and let me sleep
but the mind, the bus, and the street
are each a cold road home.

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