I’m chasing

the going tides of FM stations.

Retreating seas of sound-waves

fade to grains of sand

beneath a radio Moon.

It rounds a sky of stereo

and hangs in the ink

and empty space

towards the end of my wrist

and revolves in my fingers

through the froth and foam.

The wash of electrons upon

the timid afterglow echos

of oceans that once were

a blush or breath,

her caress that

vibrates still on the skin

long after my hands

are on the wheel

driving on roads

towards nowhere new.