Field Recording

Joe Milazzo

In all the customs queues
in all the airports that once
were bus terminals built
on the burial grounds of steam
tunnels all over the world,
curtsying draft horses
are dropping apple
cores and stomaching
the carnivorous drag
of their bridles.

In every ATM mirror
in every dusty package
store in every food desert
in every hour-long
serial drama being consumed
on every toilet in
every NIMBY enclave, knots
counted by crochet
and brocade and macrame
are being assimilated
in lieu of being revived.

And in the long Friday
night of each other-
than-otherworldly soul,
slow-clapping in all
the Bleacher Bowls frisked and
dampening in the pause
ratified by committee—
vocoders and color guards
and fiberglass tubas
mucked up in monthly
payments to the well-hung
pee-wee proud to be
the official spokesperson
for every last grand jury
that reviews under the hood—
drones are twitching
with dreams of being
chased by the ghosts
of self-pollination.