synthesizing tunes for the forest,
instruments of noise and impulse,
my battery drained; I slept then as well,
awaking to moonlight-textured trees
flattened into white and black
galaxies of stars where once were
bark lichen and branch, just as
television static caught in streaks
by a resurrected photographic technique
shows new ghosts through a grit of film
which eye lets find itself in texture,
those 70s movie skies full of labyrinths
we've lost without that noise,
that canvas wicking paint into lines,
those pianos falling slightly
out of tune, that differential ripeness
of a peach's flesh, each diversity
of sorrows sounded, joys smelled,
anxieties rolling like species of
uncooked grain in the back of one's throat;
dots of ink swell in recycled paper and
dry to matte solidity, but still they wink
mischievously when scanned, placing bright
pixels in the curling lobes of letters
like the sun setting on tips of wavelets
scattering to tune our skyping voices
against the background radiation,
the noise, the noise, the noise, the noise,
the forest and each eyeball's impulse
to moonlit pattern.