Donald Dunbar
Echoes Fucking Up the Real Sound

Fingers in a full-spread
I walk from one part to
another part to another part
of the yard with my arms
hard in front of me, cold breath
tracing my ribs &

plainly something’s not quite right.
I’m like a picture of a deaf man.
I’m all nerves, & paler—

& there’s these piano-keys under my feet, in the dirt!
Strings from the string instruments
in the dirt! Buttons from a telephone there too.
I just don’t know what to do.

It’s all grayscale
starting chest-level, or about.

Look at all this. Echoes
fucking up the real sound.

It’s a sterile mock-up

A contingency memory

Pre-radio recital

Just a legendary
inkbrush drawing of

idiot light
from a star

on the floor
in a star-shape.