Park Slope Practice Space

A cord thrown over a bar of opaque air,
knots stuck in blocks of transparent concrete.
And you down there
swinging

In the back of the room, the beat of bird wing snares.
Electric eels unplugged. Hooves fumble
with a limp pick beneath the stage.
The neck is flexible and rubbery. The radiator sings

I am licking myself clean of all melody.
Clogging the cracks in the staff
with sticky half-notes.
Replacing the singing with humming
and the humming with choking
and the choking with silence.

I'm stomping the spongy pedal.
Working out the frayed equations
to the unpaid utilities.
Learning to tie strings
around paper-wrapped packages
in the dark
without your finger.