they won't hear
Though it's been there
in the air, it seems,
For years, and, at times,
more like forever
Always asking for the stand,
always knowing what to blow,
But between the microphones
and impresarios
It was always passed over
for the known
For it seems too unabashedly new,
never before attempted,
What's been buried
in dust and neglect
A moment or a century more
than it could endure.
There are workers in charge
of people's ears;
It's a job to keep the strange away
and debut a new
That's something destitute,
a perverse devolution
As if that is the only way
progress will unfold.
A trace of a God!
The redacters won't rest
Until there's nothing left
but darkness.
