Listening to Ache

A good gnashing of verbs
grinds sparks from stale music.

Wind-crushed melodies deserve
a crushed fate being hollow.

The song , I’m afraid, is an old one.
But how old can the numeral 1 be?

I don’t know.


Dust its airborne disease
with sharpest incisors. Music

ologists assess an aria
by its fingerprints by

God. Has it touched you, white lady?
   Has it pressed a fossil
in your devil’s heart?

Its hands are on
the murder weapon:

the air I breathe —
laced with pestilence —
a sound, as
brick, dense.

James Robinson (© 2006)