Subsonic

So many spaces to fill, this
place not large enough to
hold them all. 
                          The night 
dreams of somewhere that 
jazz is playing, instead only 
holy the bop apocalypse of 
sirens marking out the high-

ways running elsewhere, no
rhythm in them. No poets
canvassing the riverbank in
search of signs or signet rings, 
leaving their trail in words 
writ either large or small.