by Matt Martin

Funny how such raggedy fanfare sunders
like a saw, serrations of speaker static
rasping through more typical din. The feedback
humbles all hubbub,

jabs its angles into the unsuspecting
ribs of bodies sipping at leafy tea, or
spitting pillaged sunflower husks at gaps in
shortening shadows.

Even traffic lowers its tone: paraded
death has claims on alien patience. Cubes of
spirit coinage scattered from misted windows
weeping the morning

speckle disrespectable gutter refuse
red and white. In their desecration drifts an
unknown debt to alleyway ghosts. The idling
bus engine bass lends

ill-kempt fossil resonance to decorum’s
tinny buzz. But quietus—all gestalt, a
mute uncovered melody. Blink, and sidewalks
cede to the living.

Định Liệt is Matt Martin’d first poem published in Eastlit.