I wish I could translate a whistle
into its bright yellow bright yellow bright yelling color
my face from force of air,
but just the way a key’s copy never fits quite right, no edge
no sharp brass horizon happens in the same light.
The problem centers here, around the chest’s fold-line,
esophagus radiates that sulphur-burn of waiting
for this call that never happens so night
takes on resentment’s must—
I have loosed you perhaps too much.
To cut away
the plastic sheath from copper threads
leaves a bendable shiny fray
of little use to me or machine, until
here, wires crossed induce a new current
in the exchange: a siren’s ammonia alarms!
alarms! Siren in the way it broke through the stillness,
bell how it says ready, come.