Muffled, sometimes,
but never utterly silent,

a babel of names I can't
quite catch, melodies

lost in the surf
of old radio hum.

You could call it jazz--
not finger popping

stage jive, but some blue
down deep pulse I know

without knowing.
Upon this background hiss

a hundred beloved voices
blurt and retreat,

quarrel, correct,
repeat and interrupt.

Whose eye could even want
to behold such a crowd?

Where is the head
great enough to find music

in such cacophony?  Half
in love with easeful silence,

I'm half terrified, too,
at the prospect

that one day this tape
will expire with a small fizzle

and a minute or two of white noise
before that real winter.

David Graham

If you've any comments about his poem, David Graham would be pleased to hear from you.