maybe there’s something I tune to deeper, silent a tuning fork an eloquent ignorance a wave, a disturbance a rhythm maybe the lowercase world is where it’s at maybe there’s a swing to which we know no footwork only coarse grumbles of a throat clearing maybe as I walk my hip pops out of joint every once in a while maybe I hear it maybe it’s a rhythm a silent spring a humpty-dumpty a broken back of all those slaves a transparent clean mess a red book a cigarette lighter desperately screaming flint on butane bloody rape scraping a slow desperate hum of current as the light draws to a close