A Song Called Spinning by Joshua Marie Wilkinson

Could the living songs be heard
through the transcriptions of the tape?
Could the memory return with accrual?
What ocean lost its cold birds of an evening
to bring the flood to the stoop,
the bed coils
to an easement,
the envelopes set open but
only to the dust we might set inside them
with an apprentice’s white gloves?
I found only what I wanted to have made
through shadows
& it was lit from below
with fresh snow on old ice on a young earth
spinning apparently.