brettworks

I’m listening to organ–
soft attack, pulsating sustain,
transparent like stained glass,
letting the light through
but only enough to paint a scene.

She listens to Bachata–
hard angles, syncopated starts,
stop and turns,
booming bass tickling the body,
enough to choreograph
an imagined party.

They were listening to pop–
sharing headphones, shoulders touching,
synthetic quantized,
snap-to-a-grid sentiments,
love songs and style,
enough to accessorize adolescence.

The infant will listen to something unknown–
long after us, a prescribed sound
of regulated bpm and modal mood,
doses of feeling to remind him
that music is still a strange tool,
enough to optimize a life.