the wet tires
on the black
on sand

the woodpecker
you don’t see
tick, ticking

the slippers
you can’t find
in the dark

until you do
the sound you can’t
imagine until you

hear it
the humming wires
overhead with

& without the wind
that rasps, creaks,
ebbs, ends

in the calm
full of subtraction,
substance

sustenance
that clears
the field

This poem is also a reaction to/review of the album, “ajar”
by Otomo Yoshihide, Keith Rowe, and Taku Sugimoto,
guitars