all the songs on the random radios
are familiar in a sudden sort of way
not that your baedeker of impulse promises
a ‘where’ to turn, to sing along
with this naive story
history
some moments of nostalgia, full of friends
lovers strangers, your car, it’s that simple
entrance, an
or otherwise altercation
this little magic, this moment or implement
which interrogates the similar
we keep speaking of ourselves to ourselves
ad infinitessimum (or,
going on forever, forever in smallness)
as you have been a few instances
we are not supposed to know
the dark that marks my erstwhile arms
an impasse
some kind of rubber band or is it heartache
just fell over into bits of song
