Out of Focus

In the gyre of an open eye

so much spins,

so much turns

inside out,

wreathed in coiled concertina

and soaked in 

broken glass.

The foreign fuselage

you find inside you

sold time

and bought distance

to get 

so far gone,

so out of focus,

in the veins of your memory,

in the cells of your soul.

Sometimes

become other times

and

fixed points dilate.

Warm folds familiar

become

blue cool blue; 

down

beat

in 

4/4

with tremolo.

This is a modulation. 

We are a world painted shut 

by sheets of static

and kilocycles.

Class A idiosyncrasies

run through greenback alnico.

The speakers are loosed

but the ride still 

bleeds through.

This take is not the master.

We are still rough.

Blistered fret fingers 

need roll off 

of high-end presence. 

Time to nuance

and play the space

between the notes.