If I put the needle to the grooves,
let them cruise over me, my own
unruly car with your hands lashed
to the wheel,

I would find in those folds
the garden bursting, friends flying
off of bridges, like they had
two weeks to live;
at the most,

there can only be seventy-five
minutes of you in one sitting.

The record turns, black and bruised,
and pops itself into the fuss
of the middle, the speakers
twitching the night goodbye.

I never turned off, into a ditch,
grooves to the earth’s vinyl.
I don’t have a sleeve, closed up
by cardboard thanks and
liner notes.

Still the turning ends: the returning
will end, but not before I take
one more listen, rubbing my eyes
with it and grinding its valleys to plains.

-W.B. Hurst