Shortwave

This old bridge can’t draw
or won’t.

Still I crawl below
tying my things down in the dirt.

You come by to tell me
the dogs have run away

or that a man’s voice should fit
like a glove against your throat.

Then you shake my shoulders
so I’ll talk.

Wave after wave
a wet moon thrashes in the wind.

The littered shoreline breathes
and is bereft of sea.

Truth told
I know no more, even less.

The radio scritters
and clirks. The origin of sound

unseen, but forever
crashing in staccato gasps of great

knowinglessness.
Come down from there

a little wiser now.
Easy.