The dials to the radio are melting. We carry
Guitars in our pocket that inflate
to full size when pulled.
Our border
The length of an arm when it extends
As far as an arm will go.
We enter the guitars
Pull on the strings from the inside.
There is an arm. There is something we touched
And kept rolled in newspaper until the air
Was ready to be fall again. To be fall
And fall again into Ben’s
Recorded voice.
You used to be young
His voice says. His voice says
You used to be prettier
And half hearted.
Now you are whole.
You are completely earthed.
You need to get back
To the youth-anizing.
You need to flee
The supremacy of assholes.
You need to stand inside an arc of arms and tango
And after reading poems, fold symmetrically into a glass
Red with tannins and the new girl.
Her eyes are on you. Her border is melting
Like a radio on fire as she steps into the guitar.
She pulls you in by the hair and standing beneath the strings
You beat your hands into the wooden
Curvature, slumped sides of each other
Rocked. Everyone is singing
About guns, how they fire
Into the dark like telescoped voices.
Your hands are Velcro.
They belong everywhere.